


biting the bullet

by idolatry (bellmare)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Existential Crisis, Faustian Bargain, Gen, Identity Issues, NaNoWriMo 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 04:24:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16055498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellmare/pseuds/idolatry
Summary: Dealing with the devil, so to speak.-- Han Byeol, Bel.





	biting the bullet

He’s always been a creature of habit, no matter how many faces he’s worn, no matter how many identities he’s taken as his own. That, and he’s always liked good coffee. 

Han Byeol wouldn’t call this his favourite coffee shop; he’s been to far too many to be able to pick out a favourite, anyway. It’s a nondescript enough place, with an alfresco area that opens out to the street; from his table, he can see people going about their daily business, a tide that ebbs and flows but never truly ends. Opposite, a bus stops and commuters pile out, a soberly-dressed crowd outfitted for the winter rains. The bus idles at the timed stop; its reflection trembles and shimmers in the swathes of puddles across the road, colours distorted by an oily rainbow sheen on the water. Closer to his side of the road, a woman walks an enthusiastic horde of dogs, large and small; some strain and tug at their leashes, others bark at passing traffic or stop to sniff everything in sight -- garbage cans, lampposts, a squealing child who walks alongside her parents. One of the dogs, tail waving wildly like a flag at the end of a pole, sticks its nose through the coffeeshop’s balustrade, right under the bracket of flowerpots, and sniffs at Han Byeol’s knee. He offers it his hand and it licks at his fingers, snuffles into his palm a few times, catching scent of the sandwich he was eating earlier. Disappointed at not finding anything, it gives his hand a last, hopeful lick before ambling off again, tail still wagging.

Inside the cafe, the coffee machine hisses steam, and grinders work their way furiously through another batch of beans. Han Byeol stares down at his empty cup, and contemplates ordering another, perhaps before the line gets too long. He leaves his belongings on the table, and keeps a semi-watchful eye on them as the line snakes closer to the counter; he’s been here often enough to know that the other patrons have little interest in pilfering unwatched items -- they're far too wrapped up in their own lives, for that.

There are a few faces he vaguely recognises -- like the old man who always orders croissants with his coffee, or the young woman with pens in her hair and large, horn-rimmed glasses, or the group of school-age students who sometimes flood the store in a noisy, chatty gaggle and sit down to study, huddled together near the back corner.

While he’s waiting, he looks around, and spots a woman sitting almost directly opposite his table, with her back to the mirror on the wall. She’s handsomely dressed, in a silk blouse and high-waisted skirt with gleaming gold buttons, a dark navy cape-coat draped neatly over the back of a chair by her side. She has pale white-gold hair styled into a sleek knot; a chain of tiny, fine seed-pearls glint at her throat. Once or twice, Han Byeol thinks he can feel the intensity of her scrutiny; each time he glances up, she’s engrossed in the tiny book of crossword puzzles open on the table before her. She flicks a pen between her fingertips, twirling it back and forth; after some deliberation, she writes something down, and crosses something else out.

There’s something oddly familiar about her, though Han Byeol knows he hasn’t seen her before. Distracted, he doesn’t notice it’s his turn to order, and only stares blankly at the barista until she prompts him again. “Sir?”

“Oh--sorry,” Han Byeol blurts out, tearing his eyes away from the woman by the mirror. “I’ll have another black coffee, please.” He thinks about the woman, about his belongings still on the table, warmed by the sun. “To go,” he adds.

After a moment's indecision, he adds on a bag of biscotti to his order -- he's always been partial to almonds, always liked something sweet to offset the bitterness of coffee. He fumbles a little as he hands out the correct change, and hesitates when the barista asks for his name to write on the cup. “Ha--“ he begins, and stops himself. It’s been getting worse, recently; it’s become alarmingly easy to forget who he is, who he’s supposed to be. “Uh, sorry.” He coughs, and pastes on his best smile. “Daniel.”

Nobody at the counter spares him a second glance. He moves to the side, closer to the pastry case, so the next customer can get through. Perhaps people forget their own names all the time. Perhaps people forget who they're supposed to be all the time. Discomfited by the thought, Han Byeol preoccupies himself with scrutinising the spread of food in the display case -- there are dainty madeleines, dusted with sugar; an assortment of fruit tarts and macarons line the top shelf, in flavours both everyday -- vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, honey, caramel -- and unusual -- rosewater, lavendar, Earl Grey, champagne. There are eclairs stacked in a corner, filled with cream, the tops glazed in chocolate, dark and shiny from the tempering; next to them are profiteroles drizzled with toffee, and mille-feuille, the layers delicate and flaking. A small hand thumps against the glass of the display and Han Byeol glances to the side, meeting the eyes of a toddler; the boy grins up at him, a gummy gap-toothed smile. 

Han Byeol smiles back, somewhat more slowly; the child jumps in delight, smacking his hand more insistently against the display case. Before the boy can leave more chocolate-smudged handprints on the glass, Han Byeol unties his bag of biscotti and offers it to the child; the boy claps his hands, gleeful, and jams a sticky hand in, extricating a fistful of biscuits -- before stuffing the lot into his mouth. Another child -- this one, a girl, slightly older than the toddler -- wanders over from the other corner of the display case; perhaps children have a second sense for sweets. Rather more guardedly, she accepts the biscotti from Han Byeol and murmurs a shy thanks, before tugging half-heartedly at her brother's shoulders, ineffectually trying to steer him back towards their mother.

It's a scene Han Byeol has almost forgotten; it's been a long time since he's thought about his own family, even longer since he's last visited them. He wonders if his parents are well, or if they're still even alive; whether they even think of him -- and not who he's supposed to be; they, alone, denied burying their principal heir over a century ago.

Someone taps him on the shoulder, and he almost jumps. The children's mother is holding out a takeaway coffee cup labelled with-- right, it's supposed to be his name. Han Byeol stares blankly at the cursive loops forming his -- no, Daniel Mayfair's -- name and slowly takes the cup.

"Thank you," he says. The mother smiles a little, and hefts her toddler a little higher in her arms. 

"The biscuits," she says, looking slightly embarrassed. "Oh, you shouldn't have."

Han Byeol smiles, as winsomely as he can manage; it isn't too difficult -- Daniel Mayfair isn't an unattractive man, young even by thaumaturgist standards. "Couldn't finish them myself," he says, and collects his coffee. 

The toddler waves at Han Byeol. "Bye-bye," he says and laughs uproariously, as though it's the funniest thing in the world. Han Byeol smiles despite himself; the child's face is covered with crumbs, the remnants of the biscotti clutched in small, pudgy hands. 

Han Byeol passes by the woman in navy on his way back; while sidestepping another mother with a stroller and a wailing toddler trying to manoeuvre between the chairs, he brushes too close against her table. He knocks the woman's coat out of place; jostled by the coat, the umbrella propped against her table slides to the side, clattering to the floor. He hastens to catch the coat before it falls, murmuring an apology. The woman smiles and tucks the chair closer under the table. "Don't worry about it," she says. When he glances back at her over his shoulder, she's still smiling down at her crossword puzzle, like she's just found a particularly amusing combination in the letters.

The first thing he does once he's returned to his table is put on his glasses. He blinks a few times to get his bearings, and to adjust to the hazy double-vision that comes with wearing thaumaturgical lenses. The pair he has at hand is a fairly low-grade one, only able to see to the fourth plane at most. Everything looks normal -- even through the lenses; there is nothing strange or inhuman about the figures scattered around the shop. The woman with the navy coat glances up, and meets his eye. She smiles a small, secret smile, and mouths something -- glasses look good on you, her lips spell out. Discomfited, Han Byeol flushes and slips the glasses off, then puts them back on after a second thought. 

On the way out with his coffee, he almost forgets the rest of his belongings, and has to detour back; however, as he passes by the table near the mirror, he notices the woman is gone. His hand jerks when he lifts his coffee cup to take a sip; he drinks too fast, scalding his tongue and throat.

Outside, people pass by him without a word or a second glance, the crowd parting and then re-forming around him like water around a stone. The clouds shift in the sky, momentarily blocking out the sun, looming dark and heavy over the rooftops. He adjusts his glasses and steps into the crowd; on the other side of the road, the bus is still idling. There is nobody inside

It starts to rain when he gets halfway down the street, a light, brisk drizzle that barely makes any sound. Han Byeol turns his collar up and lowers his head, ducking through the crowd with renewed speed. When he glances down, the puddles on the ground seem to be steaming -- perhaps from the humidity.

There are no ripples on the surface of the water -- just smooth, mirrorlike puddles scattered around the ground, reflecting his face back at him. 

He takes a turn along the next street, picking up his pace as the rain continues to fall. 

Someone bumps into his shoulder as he makes his way back to the Magisterium headquarters. His coffee spills, the lid popping askew, and Han Byeol nearly drops the cup.

“Sorry!” The woman -- the same one from the café -- makes a grab for the cup, and catches it by the top. With her other hand, she reaches into her bag, and produces a wad of tissues.

“It’s all right,” Han Byeol says, even though his hand is stinging from the hot coffee. He turns to leave, to continue along his way, but the woman's voice stops him cold.

"Choe Sae Byeok?" she asks; a query. Han Byeol flinches involuntarily, but forces himself to keep walking. He bumps against another pedestrian, almost walking right into them; they feel strangely insubstantial, and don't even spare him a response or a second glance.

"...or should I say, Choe Han Byeol?"

This time Han Byeol stops and turns despite himself, meeting the woman's eyes. His mouth is dry. "You've got the wrong person," he manages.

She stares back at him, still holding the coffee cup. Her eyes are hazel, tinted gold in the light. "Do I?"

Every sense screams at him to leave, to put as much distance as possible between himself and the woman; however, his proximity sensors are quiet. For all intents and purposes, there is nothing amiss about his surroundings. 

He blinks, looking back up at the woman. Thaumaturgical lenses don't lie; there is nothing strange or inhuman about her -- at least, up until the fourth plane. Han Byeol takes a step back, then another, uncertain.

The rain continues to fall; though the woman's umbrella is shut and hooked over her arm, the rain doesn't seem to affect her; it falls over and around her, as though afraid to get too close, water forming a faint halo around her. 

"What wouLd you prefer, then?" She hasn't moved from her place and remains standing there in the middle of the street, crowd hurrying around her. "Daidouji Hokuto? Or maybe that's a bit too personal; after all, we only just met. I can call you by your current identity too, if that's more to your liking." Her smile broadens by degrees; Han Byeol feels a chill run down his spine. "Daniel Mayfair now, is it?"

When he doesn't reply, she cocks her head to the side, thoughtful. "I've heard about you, No Face, scourge of thaumaturgists."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says. "You've got the wrong person."

She ignored him. "You like to live dangerously, don't you? Lying low, just long enough to seem all the more elusive and mysterious. It does have a rather nice ring to it -- nameless and faceless, all the more enticing a quarry."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"And then you resurface long enough to pique interest," she continues, "to lure those hungry for the glory of bringing you down. It's the same story every time. They don't succeed and you vanish, like the modern-day Teumessian fox." She chuckles a little to herself, as though it's some great big personal joke. "And then, you steal their identities. The cycle repeats."

Han Byeol tries to turn, to leave, and finds himself rooted in place. Overhead, clouds continue to move lazily through the sky; he notices, out of the corner of his eye, the way the crowd seems to fade and dissolve as the people get further from him. The empty bus squats, large and still and quiet near the curb. With a start, he realises it's completely silent, despite the crowd still eddying around him, despite the rain that's still falling -- or rising, perhaps, the droplets drifting upwards past his face, back towards the sky. He'd been too shaken to notice the rules of reality warping as the demon exerts her influence on it; too distracted to notice the way the Domain spun itself into existence around him, the demon’s trap neatly laid. 

"Which will it be, then?" the woman asks. "Will you be like the great fox of Teumessos, destined never to be caught? Or will you be bound by your fate, turned to stone and unable to move forwards or back?"

Han Byeol pivots slowly on his heel to face her again. "Neither," he says, a little stiffly. "And who might you be?"

"Oh, forgive my manners." For a moment, she looks almost contrite. "I hope you understand, but I'd say who you are is rather more important than who I am."

"Hardly." Han Byeol gestures around them, at the faded crowd pushing right through him, at the rain rising to the sky. "Not many people have the ability -- or resources, for that matter -- to create such a seamless Domain. What are you, then? A witch? Thaumaturgist? No." He pauses and draws in a breath. "A high-tier demon. Asura, at the very least."

This elicits a small, surprised laugh out of her. "You flatter me."

"I've seen a Domain or two, in my time."

The woman watches him, motionless. "As expected from the Choe family, I suppose.You're every bit as good as they say you are," she says conversationally. "I'd expect a bit more disorientation when entering a Domain."

"Not when laid with that kind of skill and finesse." Han Byeol takes off his glasses; he knows the lenses are useless here. The woman -- demon, really, for that's what she is, to have created a Domain and lured him in -- is more than she seems. An asura seems like too conservative a guess -- to rewrite the rules of reality so seamlessly, she could even be a Heruka at the very least. "When did you--ah." Of course. It had to be when he'd brushed against her coat. 

The woman smiles, her hazel eyes narrowing in amusement. In the gathering puddles around their feet, he can see the reflection of something huge and long and sinuous; he can see a hint of golden scales, rippling with iridescent rainbow reflections in the oily puddles. The air around her seems to shimmer, distorted by heat haze. 

"You're most kind, Choe Sae Byeok -- or whoever it is you want to be today. But enough of that, back to the matter."

"I'm sorry," Han Byeol says through his teeth. "But you have the wr--"

The woman hums a little, as she tucks a lock of pale hair behind her ear. "It's not polite, you know, to take the names of others. But I suppose your reputation is well-earned."

"What do you want with me," Han Byeol says through clenched teeth. "And how did you find me?"

She frowns, disappointed. "Cutting to the chase already? Living amongst humans for too long has made you forget -- the thaumaturgists may have Laplace's Demon, but ..."

Here, she bridges the gap between them and looms alarmingly close. She presses a few sheets of tissue against his hand, dabbing at the remainder of the coffee. His skin feels like it's burning, for completely different reasons -- her touch is uncomfortably warm, her grip uncomfortably strong. Accompanying that is a curious sharp, tingling sensation, almost as though his arm’s fallen asleep. If he had his doubts before, this, surely, is all the evidence he needs -- two illusions interfering with one another, uncertain of how to overlap. Han Byeol glances down at his hand, then back into the woman’s eyes. She seems to note his discomfort, but doesn’t let him pull away.

"... you know of the kinds of beings that make up the backbone of the system." She smiles, showing her teeth. They are alarmingly normal, alarmingly human. They are very white, and very even. Her hands are very warm, uncomfortably so after the scalding from the coffee. "Let's just say ... I'm Someone's Demon, in the same respect."

All around him, the phantom crowd is very silent, and the rain falls without a sound. The puddles at his feet are calm and still, their surfaces smooth and unbroken -- and yet, he can sense the wrongness in everything his senses feed back to him. He can't trust his eyes, not when he can see the monstrous, serpentine shape of the woman's reflection shifting in the glass shopfronts around them; he can't trust his ears, not when the silence presses, hot and heavy and oppressive against his eardrums. He tries to move his hand, but isn't sure if it responds -- the only thing he can feel is a curious tingling, and, with it, the warmth of a burning touch. His fingers twitch, a motion he only dimly registers. The woman pats the back of his hand almost affectionately, dabbing folded tissues over where he would've been scalded. Her hands are alarmingly normal, alarmingly human -- pale and slender, the fingers neither long, nor short. Her nails are painted a dark, glittering burgundy, the surfaces and edges immaculate -- just like the rest of her, from the elegant twist of her pale hair, knotted at the back of her head, to the crisp, dark lines of her overcoat, like a patch of darkness cut neatly out from their surroundings. The embossed golden buttons clasped at her throat are too bright, too perfect -- just like the strings of pearls around her neck, each smooth and uniformly round. There is something vaguely familiar about her face -- the high, full cheekbones; the sharp, patrician features; the almost unnatural pale white-gold of her hair. Even though she's shorter than him, her presence feels overwhelming, somehow.

Most incongruously, there's a single imperfection in her otherwise unnervingly immaculate guise -- a small, pale scar at the base of her jaw, thin and silvered from healing. It's almost invisible, in the light. That, and her eyes; no longer the natural hazel they were before -- or were they? -- they are a bright and vivid red-gold, the hypnotic stare of a snake. For a moment, Han Byeol thinks he can see the shadow of something shifting in her eyes, the energies of the Sea of Samsara struggling against the confines of her guise. 

Han Byeol tears his eyes away from the scar. "And what does that someone want with me, then?" he snaps. "Why are they so interested in me all of a sudden?"

The woman cants her head slightly to the side. "I would think the actions of the mysterious and elusive No Face to be plenty interesting enough, don't you think?"

Han Byeol stays silent. the woman watches him closely, still wearing a trace of a smile -- and yet it's more curious than anything else, despite the mocking edge of her words. "Of interest to who? The Bureau? The Magisterium?"

"I shouldn't need to tell you," she says, still light and pleasant and conversational. 

Han Byeol sucks in a sharp breath. “The witch queens and kings. To which one do I owe this honour, then?”

The woman bows her head slightly, but pointedly ignores his question. "We've known about you, of course."

"Then why haven't you acted? The actions of a rogue witch running wild and baiting thaumaturgists ... shouldn't that have been something worth investigating, long before I did anything?"

"I act only upon my master's judgement," the demon concedes, "and ... well, do pardon me for saying this, but your prior actions were of no interest to her."

That narrows it down slightly, then. There are only so many witch kings and queens; there are even fewer, who take such a cavalier attitude. Han Byeol bares his teeth, sneering despite himself. "Hardly the conduct of a witch queen. Doesn't that go against her very station? Her very purpose?"

"You acted against her first." The woman shrugs. "My master likes to observe without interfering, to let people do as they wish, to make mistakes and learn from them, and then grow past and beyond them. However, there are some things she simply cannot turn a blind eye to."

"And to what do I owe the honour of her notice," Han Byeol asks stiffly, drawing the words slowly out.

The demon smiles, eerily placid. "Assault and battery," she says, as though discussing a simple human crime to a police officer. "Attempted murder, towards some dear -- and valuable -- subordinates. Unfortunately for you, you took a course of action we couldn't ignore. An act of spontaneous aggression, if you will."

Han Byeol thinks of a rainy night, several months ago. A familiar face staring at him, eyes wide in shock. There'd been someone else there, too, a man with a tiger mask, the beast's carved alabaster jaws parted in a snarl. "This is about Jang Jae Young, then. He’s done awfully well for himself, if a witch queen sends her personal demons after me for a lecture on why I shouldn't do anything to him."

Another shrug. "Perhaps."

“Glad to hear some people have gone far in life and been able to move on,” Han Byeol mumbles despite himself. “What is he now, then? Her consort, or something? I thought a witch queen would have better taste than that.”

The demon snorts, and attempts to disguise it as a cough. “You’re funny,” she says, almost straight-faced. “But that isn’t really of any concern to you.”

She slips her hand into her pocket and Han Byeol tenses; nothing he does will have an effect on a demon -- or, at least, not one as high-tier as she is. She laughs a little bit when he moves, but there is no unkindness there. "What hope do your little talismans have against me?" she asks, almost gently, as she slides her hand back out. 

"You know about--?"

This elicits something almost akin to a titter out of her. "A little advice, if I may? They're awfully distinctive ... I'd almost say they were No Face's calling cards, of a sort. Do be more careful about where you leave your belongings, won't you?"

Without breaking eye contact, she thrusts an item into his hands -- an oddly-shaped metal stake, the body long and slender and undulating, and something else; thin and rectangular, something which makes his hand tingle, almost like the nerves have fallen asleep. Han Byeol glances down, down at one of the stakes of Rashomon lying on an innocuous envelope. The metal of the stake is dull, the arrays carved upon the surface tarnished and inactive. The handle and tip of the stake are blackened slightly, as though burnt. This, he slides into his pocket; the envelope, he turns over. It could be any other envelope in the world; there is nothing written on it -- but the flap is sealed with a globule of wax, pressed with the shape of a seal. 

"A summon edict," he says, and glances sharply back up at the woman. 

The woman bows her head in a nod. "The witch queen of the western mountains wishes to request your presence for an audience," she says. Then, less formally, she adds, "you could always say no, of course."

"What's the catch?" Han Byeol asks, hand clenching around the envelope. "You wouldn't have gone to all the effort to set up a Domain or go through all this song and dance otherwise. All that effort just to present me with a letter, that's excessive."

"You could always say no," the woman repeats. "But that would be, ah, inadvisable."

"Are you planning on taking me by force?"

Her eyes widen. "Goodness, no. Do you really take my master as somebody so barbaric?"

Han Byeol turns the envelope over again, tilting it slightly. The surface of the paper is smooth and unblemished; there's some writing on the back flap -- presumably an address, for where he's being summoned to. "I've heard ... rumours of the witch queen of the western mountains," he finishes, cautious. "But perhaps it's you I should be worried about."

The woman laughs, sounding almost surprised. "Me?"

"Not every day someone encounters a demon as uncommon as a corpse dragon." Han Byeol lifts his head to meet her gaze squarely. She laughs again, covering her mouth with her hand. The tips of her fingernails are squared off, the edges rounded. 

She stops, lowering her hand. There isn't a trace of a smile on her face. "My master," she says, completely serious now, "is the one to be feared. That much, I can tell you. Me, I'm just a simple messenger."

"Yeah, I don't doubt you for a second when you say that. Especially if she can afford to send the likes of you to act as a simple messenger." He opens his mouth, shuts it.

The demon folds her arms, tapping her fingertips against her forearms. "Let me guess. You're wondering if this is beneath my station?"

"Well, yes."

She smiles a small, secret smile. Han Byeol feels almost privy to a conspiracy. "That's a dangerous way of thinking," she says. "Never think of anything as beneath you."

"I know that now, thanks," Han Byeol spits before he can stop himself. To her credit, the demon only looks amused. 

"I like you," she declares. The words seem to shiver and reverberate strangely in the air, in the static rain droplets suspended between them. Han Byeol thinks he can feel his eardrums trembling, threatening to pop from the pressure the demon exerts around her. "It's rather nice to not have people running to the hills once they realise what you are."

The woman steps back. Rain unfreezes itself, and falls, unimpeded, to the ground. "I'll be seeing you," the demon says, somewhat more formally now; the effect is ruined, somewhat, by the wink she gives him. There is nothing inviting about it -- Han Byeol can see all-too-clearly, the inhuman fire of her eyes, the piercing otherworldly gaze of something that should long ago have been left drowned and buried in the deepest and furthest reaches of the Naraka. " _We'll_  be seeing you," she amends, almost as an afterthought, and turns, stepping away and back into the illusory crowd that continues to traverse through her Domain. Han Byeol cranes his neck slightly, hoping to track her, to see what direction she takes -- but this, he knows, is futile.

He takes her cue, and turns as well. The hairs at the back of his neck prickle as he rounds a corner; the noise from passersby is quiet and muted at first, slowly intensifying to a more natural hum, snatches of conversation arising like wisps of smoke around him. A man in a suit and talking on a phone ploughs right into him -- and this man is reassuringly solid, reassuringly real and present. He doesn't break stride, only giving Han Byeol the briefest of glares, all the while barking into his phone about tender submissions and overdue contracts. Despite himself, Han Byeol breathes a sigh of relief, and moves his foot before the man can tread on it again.

Only once he's several metres away does Han Byeol glance over his shoulder, back to the street he's just left. People -- real, or illusions, he has no idea now -- walk past him, tracing paths through and around where, just moments ago, he had met a corpse dragon. Somewhere, a baby cries; on the other side of the street, the waiting bus seems to sigh, doors easing shut as the vehicle lurches to a start, having outstayed the limits of its timed stop. The rain has slowed to a humid drizzle now, making the collar of Han Byeol's coat stick uncomfortably to his neck.

Only once he's turned the corner, only once he's sure he's made enough distance between him and the demon's dissolving Domain, does he inspect the summon edict. There's an address inked neatly on the paper -- and nothing else. The text is printed neatly across the front in crisp, sharp lettering; the back of the envelope is sealed in wax, pressed into characters from the Old Script. Han Byeol doesn't bother opening it.

.

"The Antarcticite Pillar, huh?" Han Byeol asks, more to break the silence than anything else. "Why's it called that?"

It was the name the driver had given him, when Han Byeol had provided the address. For several moments, the driver doesn't respond. They stop at a set of traffic lights, in the right-hand lane. The indicator light flicks, on, off, ticking quietly in the silence.

They pass another intersection, giving way to a sudden surge of cars headed straight in the opposite direction. A horde of people pass through the street, men and women in business attire; the evening rush. They stream out across the pedestrian crossing, the tide breaking when it reaches the other side. The pedestrian light blinks green a few more times before glowing red, a brilliant, glaring eye in the sunset.

"Because it glitters like some fancy crystal prism in the afternoons," the driver says at last. "All that faceted glass, and each and every pane seems to face a different direction. Really burns itself into your eyes, that thing."

The taxi pulls up in front of a skyscraper that doesn't seem all that different from the others surrounding it -- it rises from the ground like a pillar of glass and steel, all sharp angles and glittering edges. Several floors are still lit up, spots of light winking amongst the darkness.

The summon edict feels like it's burning a hole in his pocket. Han Byeol hasn't bothered to open it; the crisp waxen seal is still unbroken, the edges of the envelope now softened somewhat from the number of times he's worried away at it. The taxi idles at the edge of the curb, and when several moments pass the driver clears his throat. Han Byeol pretends to be preoccupied with extricating his glasses from his pocket and wiping off the lenses. When he puts them on, nothing changes -- but he knows by now that it's meaningless -- after all, some magic goes deeper than the first few planes.

The driver catches his eye in the rearview mirror. "We're there," he announces, somewhat unnecessarily. "Sorry," Han Byeol says, and makes a show of fumbling for his wallet, almost dropping the envelope in the process. "How much?"

He doesn't have the right change, and ends up leaving the remainder of the fare with the driver. The car pulls away from the curb, leaving Han Byeol to walk towards the building.

The sliding doors part silently before him, moving away from each other with barely more than a whisper. At the marble-tiled foyer, a woman waits for him, fingers laced together in front of her. Her nails are painted a deep, dark, metallic burgundy, just like they were before. She wears stiletto heels -- snakeskin, the hide burnished a subtle gold -- which click sharply across the floor when she walks towards him. This time, she's opted out of the navy coat she was wearing before -- but her appearance is just as unnervingly pristine as it was, then. She's wearing a sleeveless silk blouse, the ribbon collar knotted deliberately loose -- and her shoulders are surprisingly broad without the dark coat to conceal them  -- paired with a simple black skirt, a modest slit up the back hem. On her right wrist is a bracelet made from several strings of too-smooth, too-perfect pearls, the ends capped in gold and diamond; on the left, a watch with fine points of semiprecious stones, studding the numbers on the dial. Her pale white-gold hair is styled into a slightly different arrangement today.

Han Byeol raises his brows. "Are you playing secretary now? Receptionist? Didn't realise people summoned the greater dead to act as glorified errand-boys. Or errand-women, in your case," he adds, feeling a muscle in his jaw twitch slightly. "Messenger, door-greeter, secretary, receptionist. You're a regular jack of all trades, aren't you?"

Instinct tells him, rationally, to stop testing the limits of the Heruka's patience; pleasant she may be, but he's certain she only behaves as such on the witch queen's orders. Nerves -- and his own desire to be difficult -- tell him, more irrationally, to see how far he can go before he cracks the veneer of her charm and goodwill. To his surprise, she smiles, eyes narrowing in amusement. "Just making sure my esteemed guest arrives without issue," she says smoothly. "Wouldn't want you getting lost after taking all the effort to come here, do we?"

"Ah, yes," Han Byeol says before he can think about what he's saying. "It's so easy to get lost in a tall building, where the person you're seeing is awfully important and will probably be located at the top floor. How dumb of me."

He swears the woman almost cackles. "I like you," she purrs, delicately raising the back of her hand to her mouth in a belated effort to stifle her laugh. She's wearing a large, heavy ring on one of the fingers, though he can't make out the detail on it. "I think we'll get along very well."

"Hm. And are they paying you to flatter me, too? Sweeten me up for whatever deal is going to be struck here?"

"Perhaps," she says, almost singsong. Then, slightly more seriously, she adds, "oh, no, that's all mine. A personal touch, courtesy of yours truly. I just say things how I see them."

"I'm not sure whether they're paying you too much," Han Byeol says, unable to help himself. He resists the urge to gesture towards her, at her accessories and the air of measured opulence she chooses to guise herself with. "Or ... perhaps too little. Maybe a pay raise is in order."

The woman -- demon, really; he knows that all too well, at this juncture -- laughs, delighted. "Perhaps I shall bring it up with the board of directors."

"I'm sure they will have no trouble agreeing to your demands."

She raises her brows slightly. "And why is that?"

Han Byeol shrugs, palms up. "Because you're the overpowered corpse dragon?"

That seems to amuse her. "I see," she says, still smiling as though what he said is of great hilarity. "I see."

"I'm glad to be of such amusement," he says drily. "But perhaps we could leave the foyer now? If it's all the same to you, I would like to get back before it's too late. I hope you'll understand. Being in an unfamiliar city, in unfamiliar company, is more than enough to make anybody uneasy."

"Oh, but of course. Are you uneasy?"

"No."

She titters softly. "How rude of me, keeping you here, in suspense, trapped in unfamiliar territory." She extends a hand towards the elevators, and bows, ever so slightly. "Would you care to accompany me?"

"You don't give me much of a choice."

"No, I suppose not," she agrees. She presses the button to call the elevator; another arrives, but is headed further downstairs. A pair of interns exit the elevator -- both young men, one with dyed blond hair, his dark brown roots only just starting to show; most incongruously, he's wearing bulky black suede sneakers, with intricate gold detailing along the sides -- the street fashion is at great odds with the more businesslike wear his companion and the corpse dragon wear. The other young man -- tall, dark-haired -- is rather more soberly dressed, keeping pace with his friend despite the slight limp he walks with -- and also despite being in the midst of texting someone on his phone. The blond glances over his shoulder at Han Byeol as they pass; he has startling green eyes, framed by the imprint of safety glasses; his hair is held out of his face by thin, colourful pins.

"Evening," the blond says to the woman, and nods at Han Byeol. "Yo."

Han Byeol's companion smiles back at the duo. "Lab work going well?" she asks. The intern barks out a laugh and walks backwards out towards the sliding doors, holding both thumbs up. "Sure, we're winning all day, every day. Haven't set anything on fire yet!"

"Yet," his companion repeats, and gives the woman a rueful smile. "Good evening, ma'am," he adds.

She waggles her fingers in a lazy wave. "Glad to hear it, but it'd be a bit more fun if something did blow up, I suppose." Here, she winks, almost conspiratorially, at the duo. "Give all your supervisors some excitement for the evening. Especially Mr. Narky himself."

"Isn't he always ... uh, narky?"

"He certainly is."

The intern frowns before snapping his fingers, a rakish grin creeping across his face despite what he's saying. "More to the point, are you really endorsing me messing with volatile substances here? After everyone chewed me out for the last on-campus incident?"

"You won't make the news if that happens here," the woman says, and Han Byeol swears she winks. "Much less damage control to be done. I guess Lysander will just yell at you for a few hours, at most. How long did he berate you for the last time? I lost track after the first half hour." She sounds almost fond. Han Byeol cannot fathom the sort of person she is talking about -- this Lysander seems too eccentric, too human to be considered a demon; perhaps conversely, perhaps he is one of the few who have an affection for demons, for consorting with the abyssal monsters of the Sea of Samsara.

The intern makes a face, while Han Byeol is lost in thought. "I think more yelling is something I can definitely live without. I mean, yeah, I screwed up with some of the results today but I don’t think a chewing-out was really necessary.”

The woman shrugs. "That's fair. I just tune him out after the first five minutes, too. I think he just lectures for the sake of lecturing, you know? I rather think he likes to be listened to every now and then, I do have to indulge him sometimes ... but maybe a career change is in order. Hm."

"Him, being paid to lecture people." The blond pulls a rueful face. "Don't let him catch wind of that."

"Hahaha. Are you two headed home?"

"Not yet." By now, the intern almost has to raise his voice; his hand shoots out, to catch his friend by the shoulder before he walks into the security bollards outside the sliding doors. "Meeting up for drinks and snacks with some of the others first, Sav’s already gone and gotten us a table. I think aunt--" Here, he catches himself, stumbling slightly over the words "--uh, the field marshal has gone home. D'you want me to tell her you're running late?"

"No, it's fine." The woman gives the intern a wink. "It's better if she doesn't know what I'm getting up to."

"Uh?"

She gestures towards Han Byeol. "Just a bit of business to attend to. Don't stay out too late, all right?"

The intern makes a little salute as he turns around again, slinging his arm around his friend. The doors slide shut, cutting off the sound of the traffic from outside. The elevator chimes, heralding its arrival.

The woman steps back, gesturing for Han Byeol to go ahead, and follows after him. She swipes an access card and selects the topmost floor, then leans against the back wall.

"Do those kids know what you are?" Han Byeol asks, cautious. She shrugs. "Think about it a little, I guess," she says. "Consider where you are, and who runs this enterprise."

"Of course." Han Byeol pushes his glasses up his nose. "Stupid question. They're witches, then? Or demons?"

"There's no such thing as a stupid question," his escort replies. "There are humans here, too, after all."

They ascend through the building, passing several floors. "Interesting choice in career for a witch queen to go into," Han Byeol says, breaking the silence. "I looked this organisation up."

"Yes. And?"

"I'm ... confused. What exactly is your master trying to achieve? What is she trying to do?"

"We do a lot of things here." The elevator glides to a halt at one of the lower floors, and the doors slide open. There's nobody there. The silence presses, heavy and oppressive against his eardrums -- or perhaps that's the hum of machinery, of the air conditioning system, of the elevator mechanism.  "Dabble in research, property development, architecture, logistics. Jack of all trades, but master of none."

Han Byeol takes off his glasses, and gives the lenses a quick polish. "No, I mean ... what is your master really trying to achieve?"

The woman gives him an odd look. "Survive, of course. Watch over the witch population in the area, make sure they don't do anything too stupid that will attract the attention of the thaumaturgists. Provide them some form of cover, so that they can live as people, and not have to skulk in the fringes and the shadows. Deal with demons and other supernatural disasters. The same deal as what the likes of the Bureau of Thaumaturgy and DIACOM and the Magisterium and other such organisations do, just on the opposite side of things. It's just much more convenient when you can masquerade as a fully human organisation, without having to worry about some gung-ho executors coming to chop your head off." She pauses, looking thoughtful. "And that being said, I do rather like having my head, I think it holds a lot of my most attractive and winning features."

"Yes," Han Byeol agrees, unable to meet her eyes.  "You do have an interesting choice in falseform. It's ... a very ... uh. A very faithful replica of somebody. Whoever it is. I'm sure they would be honoured, and very flattered."

She tuts and bats her lashes. "Come now, is that the only thing attractive and winsome about me? Just my pretty pretty face? And what about my charming wit and my sparkling intellect?"

"And your overblown ego?" Han Byeol asks. Had it been any other situation, he'd have shut up a long time ago -- but he knows the witch queen won't have him killed yet, nor would she forgive her demon for killing him, all after a few paltry insults -- at least, he surmises as such, if she's gone to the effort of summoning him without actually bringing him by force.

That elicits a laugh out of the demon. "Oh, naturally."

"I'm glad you're cognizant of your own shortcomings." Han Byeol puts his glasses back on, squinting a little bit. He's not sure when he got the little scratch at the very edge of the lens. "And what exactly is it that your master does here? Herself? Literally speaking?"

"Hmm." The woman folds her arms, resting a finger against her chin as she thinks. "Beats me. Good question, though. She mostly goes to meetings and listens to people talk, ignore them when they make decisions, and does whatever she likes. She's narcoleptic, too, so sometimes she falls asleep during board meetings, but she's rather adept at the art of sleeping with her eyes open. I say this, but she really ought to be managing all these people, overseeing them -- but as I said, she lets them do their own things. As long as their goals still converge and align somewhere, of course," she adds, almost as an afterthought.

"She sounds like a difficult person."

The woman's eyes narrow in mirth. "Oh, you have no idea," she says.

"And yet, you work for her, even though you're a Heruka."

She shrugs again. "Inexplicably, yes. I don't really know why. I guess ... initially I didn't have much of a choice, and then over time ... you just get used to the way things are. People fear change, and at the end of it, were Heruka not once many, many people, each with their own fears, hopes, and dreams?" She smiles, wistful. "The further demons stray from humanity and are moulded into the image of the Spine, the more human they ironically become."

"You never thought about making a bid for freedom?"

This gets a laugh out of her. It echoes strangely, in the confined space of the elevator. "Freedom is a construct, my dear. If I were to go free, then what? Wait and bide my time, until the next master comes along, and decides to bend me to their will? Wait until I succumb to the madness of those closest to the madness of the Spine?" She flicks her fingers dismissively. "Heavens no, I have better things to do."

The elevator stops again, after seemingly ascending forever. Han Byeol mulls this over for a moment; it's a very tall building, but surely not that tall. The doors slide open, and this time a man wearing a labcoat steps in, his suit jacket slung over the crook of his arm. He removes his reading glasses as he walks in, perching them on top of his head -- narrowly avoiding the array of ballpoint pens that keep his long hair tied in an unravelling knot. He glances up briefly at Han Byeol, eyes narrowing slightly. Then, he looks towards the woman and the furrow between his brows grows even more pronounced.

"What do you think you're doing? What are you playing at?"

His glasses reflect the light with a purplish-blue sheen; Han Byeol wonders whether it's the faint glint of spelled lenses, or whether it's just a trick of the light.

"I'm escorting a very important guest to see a very important person," the woman says, looking pleased with herself. "You're welcome to join us, if you'd like."

"No, thank you." The man presses a button at random, never taking his eyes off Han Byeol.

They ascend in silence before eventually stopping again. The man in the labcoat puts his reading glasses back on, preparing to leave. Han Byeol's companion blows him a kiss and he frowns in response, shoulders hitching up a little. "Good luck," he says tersely. Then, slightly gentler, he adds, "be careful."

Han Byeol's companion grins. "Are you worried? About little old me?"

The man sighs. "No. About him," he says, and stalks out of the elevator before either of them can respond.

"Real ray of sunshine, isn't he?" the woman says cheerfully. Han Byeol has no idea if she's being serious. He settles for leaning back and watching his -- and the woman's -- reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator. There is no faint, silvered scar on her jaw -- but that could mean nothing. Demons alter their appearances all the time, anyway.

Feeling his scrutiny, she gives him a sidelong glance. Everything else about her appearance is the same as it was before -- the sharp, patrician features; the long, pale lashes; the elegant curve of her neck, accentuated by the same string of pearls. With a start, he realises she bears more than a passing resemblance to the man that just left the elevator -- they have the same sharp features, the same angular jaw and cheekbones, the same unnaturally pale hair. Han Byeol has heard of demons assuming similar guises over time, of their bonds transcending masters and summoners; perhaps these two are the same.

"What did he mean?"

"Hmm?"

"He said he's worried ... about me. Worried about what I'll do to your master? That's ridiculous. I can't raise a hand to the witch queen."

She laughs, delighted. "You're very self-centred, aren't you? No ... but if harbouring that delusion helps you feel better, then, by all means, do carry on."

Han Byeol swallows the lump in his throat. "He's worried ... about what the witch queen will do to me."

The woman only smiles to herself, but doesn't say anything else. At a loss, Han Byeol looks around the elevator, at the walls and the readout that seems stuck on the fifty-third floor. "That man," he asks at last, and jerks his chin towards the closed doors. "Demon buddy of yours?"

"We're almost there," the woman says, completely ignoring him; Han Byeol has no idea whether she means it literally, or figuratively.

"A lot of people here seem to know you," Han Byeol says to break the silence.

She raises her brows at him. "You've met three people here. That's hardly enough of a sample to be drawing any sort of conclusion from."

"They seem to think fondly of you. I guess ..." Han Byeol hesitates. "I guess I wasn't expecting you to form that kind of bond with others, given how you're a demon."

"Demons are the truest essence of humanity, distilled to its purest form and stripped of pretence," the woman says, watching his reflection. "Their rawest instincts, bound by the sum of their deeds in life, and bound in death by the strength of their emotion and self. Of course they would seek out life, and all its ties and trappings."

Han Byeol doesn't have anything to say, after that. Perhaps it's because he isn't expecting that kind of response, stark and cold in its honesty. Or perhaps it's because he isn't even expecting a serious response, for all his goading and veiled insults.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the demon move. She's leaning back against the wall, arms folded over her chest. "Say, may I ask you a question? A rather personal one?"

Perhaps he feels like he owes it to her, after what he's just asked her. Perhaps that's why he nods, why he murmurs an assent before he can really think about it.

The demon bows her head slightly, a faint smile on her face. "Thank you. Now, on to my question: the witch queen obviously already knows who you are. And she also knows, just as obviously, who Mayfair is -- a dead man whose name and face and history you stole, not that long ago."

Han Byeol's shoulders jump at the sound of Mayfair's name. Unperturbed, she continues on. "Why, then, do you insist on wearing his identity, even to meet her?"

There's no judgement in her voice -- only curiosity. "When was the last time you saw yourself? When was the last time you truly were yourself? Why do you treat every interaction like a battle, why do you treat everyone like an enemy?”

That catches him off-guard. "Sorry?"

"Your appearance." She gestures towards him; the crystal dial of her watch catches the light. "You wear the names and faces and identities you've stolen like ... like armour, almost. Doesn't it ever get tiring? To keep up a farce all the time?"

Han Byeol stares down at the polished granite floor. "Yes," he admits, and his voice sounds very faraway and not at all like his own -- or Mayfair's, for that matter. "Sometimes ... I wish ..."

"You wish?"

He shakes his head, unable to go on. "I'm sorry. I ... you're right. It's a bit personal. Forget it."

"I see. Very well. Thank you for your honesty, nonetheless. I appreciate it."

The elevator continues, in its silent ascent up the tower. Han Byeol can feel the pressure in his ears, building until he can hear his own pulse. "It's not that complicated," he says, after a long while. "For all intents and purposes, Choe Han Byeol is a dead man whose name and face and history were erased. Choe Han Byeol and Daniel Mayfair are the same in that regard; they both no longer exist. The only difference between them is the time between their deaths."

"Hmm. A never-ending cycle. Both never had a choice in the matter. But let me guess -- all this was for a greater cause?" the demon asks, a mocking edge to her otherwise light tone.

"For a greater cause," Han Byeol agrees, and doesn't say anything else.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, he can feel the elevator slowing. It comes to a gentle, soundless halt, and the doors open to  a room with an impressive window that almost wraps the entire way around, the brightly-lit city afire beyond the glass. Between the dimmed windows and a relatively bare, simple desk sits an enormous aquarium tank, and inside a single huge arowana swims lazy laps around its enclosure. The burnished metallic red-gold of its scales catches the light, glinting at him as the fish turns, a long, undulating arc in the water.

Behind the desk sits another woman, her legs crossed, fingers laced on the desk blotter; with the city lights shining behind her and over her shoulders, Han Byeol can't quite make out her features. "Good evening," she says, and the dimmed lights over her desk gradually brighten as the last of the sun fades in the horizon. She's dressed in a silk blouse, tied at the neck by a ribbon, over a simple black skirt; there are pearls around her throat and wrists. On her left hand, she wears a watch and a large, heavy signet ring. The only difference between her and the woman that accompanied Han Byeol up is their hair -- the seated woman's hair falls loose over her shoulders, almost like a lion's mane.

She's the mirror image of the woman that accompanied him upstairs.

The silence intensifies to a roar in Han Byeol's ears; he had suspected something, anything, after the silence and emptiness of such a large building.

The woman's smile broadens the longer he stares at her; she raises a hand, giving him a lazy wave. "Nice seeing you again, Choe Han Byeol," she says and stands. "I'm sorry we had to meet in the same circumstances twice."

Twice?

Han Byeol shuts his eyes, carefully easing off his glasses. "Is this how your normally greet people, by throwing them into Domains? Is that how you pressure them into agreeing to your terms, by playing bait-and-switch?"

"No, not really," the one who accompanied him says. She sounds amused. "Just the special ones."

For the first time, he looks at her properly -- for the first time, he doubts his memories; whether the true witch queen is the one who gave him the summon edict, whether the true witch queen is the one who greeted him downstairs, whether the true witch queen is the one studying him, impassive, from the desk.

The one that accompanied him upstairs takes a step, and then another. He can hear the soft click of her heels on the carpeted floor as she traces a slow, languid circle around him. She comes to a stop at the desk, pulling long golden pins out of her hair. "That's better," she sighs, raking her fingers through the pale strands. The other woman, sleek and composed and with a scar on her jaw, winks at Han Byeol and steps aside, retracing the other's steps around him. Behind the desk, the arowana continues its circuit of the tank, passing close against the surface of the glass. It regards him sidelong through a large, unblinking eye; its mouth opens and shuts soundlessly, gills flapping.

"Please, have a seat." The woman at the desk gestures at one of the chairs, and sits down herself. "Perhaps I could interest you in some tea? Coffee? Water, at least?"

"I'm fine, thank you." Han Byeol goes to the chair, but remains standing. He draws the envelope out of his pocket, and places it on the table. "I'd like to get this over and done with, if that's permissible to you."

He glances at her, and adds, hesitantly, "your grace". He's never spoken directly to any of the witch kings or queens before -- they have always been distant presences in his life, particularly after he has taken up living among humans and thaumaturgists. Perhaps he's seen her once or twice in the past, during the few masses he's attended, though he has no way of placing her. They all look the same from a distance, with the carved bone-white masks, rimmed with the gold of the witch kings and queens. There'd always been one that treated their great congregations almost as a joke, a woman who wore thick furs despite the weather, and the mask of a tiger, the beast's carved stone face set in a frozen snarl. On the odd occasions he'd gotten close enough, he'd thought he could make out the hint of a smile, just beneath the shadow of the tiger mask's parted fangs.

The woman meets his eyes, and for a moment Han Byeol wonders if he's said the right thing; whether he was deferential enough, or perhaps whether he was too mockingly so. To his surprise, she laughs.

She has odd eyes, he realises -- one hazel, the other a vivid, burning orange-gold. She continues to laugh, almost undignified in the volume and abandon. "There's no need for that," she says, once she's stopped laughing. The trace of a smile still curls along the edge of her mouth.

"It's only right," Han Byeol says, a little stiffly. "I thought it'd be better to get our main business out of the way first."

The woman clicks her tongue. "Business this, business that." She leans back in her seat, crossing her legs; her hand brushes against a stack of letters, unopened, on her desk. Momentarily, she looks away from him, studying the names and addresses at the back of the envelopes. "You and my brother are very much the same."

Han Byeol stares blankly at her. She pulls open a drawer on her desk and takes out what Han Byeol first assumes to be a letter-opener; with a jolt, he recognises the unusual undulating shaft and the large, circular handle and realises it's one of his stakes -- one of the many he'd left embedded in the right arm of the man that'd also been in the ruins of the rest stop, all those nights ago. 

"Oh, I do hate tax season," the witch queen sighs as she slides the point of the stake through the sealed portion of the envelope. The sound of tearing paper is alarmingly, unnaturally loud in the silence -- more influence from the demon's Domain, no doubt.

"Your brother? Tax season?" Han Byeol looks from one version of the witch queen to the other. They sound like such mundane topics to bring up.

"Oh, my brother, he's the guy from a few floors earlier," the other woman behind him clarifies. Han Byeol whips around sharply; she's standing between him and the elevator -- neither really obstructing his way, nor there purely by coincidence.

The one at the desk finishes reading her letters. With a motion far faster and more vicious than Han Byeol is expecting, she takes the stake and drives it into the topmost file out of a stack on her ink blotter; something creaks and groans. She draws her hand back -- the stake quivering slightly from where she's left it, embedded almost hilt-deep in the leather-bound cover -- and steeples her fingers resting her chin on them. On anyone else, in any other situation, her posture would be almost coquettish -- though her stare is intense and unwavering, the inscrutable gaze of a cat studying its cornered prey. Despite the fact that he's still standing, Han Byeol feels like he lost the high ground a long time ago -- perhaps even the moment he stepped into the building, the moment he entered the demon's Domain.

"There aren't a lot of people who escape my notice, Choe Sae Byeok," she says. At the sound of the name, Han Byeol's heart jumps to his throat. "Or should I say, Choe Han Byeol."

"But you found me. Through Jang Jae Young."

"Indeed. How unfortunate that we have to meet this way." She splays her hands against the table and stands. Even though she's barely shorter than him, her presence looms over him, overwhelming. "But do forgive me for going off on another tangent -- I think I've been quite rude, not introducing myself."

The woman behind him speaks up, and Han Byeol turns instinctively to face her, uncertain. "Cybele Leandros," she says, calm and cordial and perfectly pleasant.

"Choe Han Byeol," he replies. “I’m ... uh. Thanks for ... taking the time to meet me. Your grace.”

The one in front of him nods, seemingly pleased by his response. Perhaps he’s passed a test, by giving her his own name, by remembering enough of his manners to not attempt to deceive her. “Now,” she says, almost gentle, “would you care to tell me what business you had with my subordinate?"

Han Byeol glances to the side, wondering how best to phrase what might as well have amounted to an attack on the witch queen. "Just ... some unfinished business to take care of. Debts to collect."

"Ah, yes," the Cybele at the desk says. The dark burgundy blood-red of her nails are rich and stark against her skin; she taps her fingertips idly against her chin, still surveying him intently. "I do know a fair bit about unfinished business and debts to collect."

"Or at least, some people I know do," the one behind him continues, looking pensive. Han Byeol glances between the two, uncertain. He'd thought the demon to be the one behind him, the genuine witch queen the one with the odd eyes -- but surely that can't be right, because she has the eerie, unwavering gaze of a demon, too bright and too unblinking. "What did Jang Jae Young do to you? Must have been pretty dire, for you to turn to treason."

Her tone is light, and conversational; nonetheless, Han Byeol shivers slightly at the word, spoken in a voice so quiet it is almost a caress. Cybele Leandros seems to sense his discomfort; she smiles slightly at him, almost kind. "A heavy word," she says, although he hasn't said anything. "I don't much like the sound of it, myself. Generally, when trying to commit acts of treason, you'd ideally like to aim for the other party to be ... hmm, unable to retaliate."

He has no idea what to say to her -- conveying his apologies sounds facetious, given he isn't entirely sure whether he means it. Cybele, on her part, continues to gaze levelly at him, as though waiting for an answer. "What did he do?" she prompts, gentle. 

Han Byeol swallows; his throat is dry, and seems to scrape against himself. "He didn't do it to me, per se. Or I guess technically, he did. Indirectly."

"Yes?"

"My identity." Han Byeol looks away from her, no longer able to meet the demon's eyes. "I don't know who I am anymore. And it was due to him."

"I did hear about that," the Cybele behind him says, thoughtful. "But I didn't really believe it myself. I didn't think the Choe family were that pressed for resources, or that diminished, that they needed to do such a thing."

Han Byeol glances sharply at her. "What thing?"

Cybele -- the one at the desk -- sighs. "I know the ways of the old and noble blood," she says, sounding tired. "The sad truth of the old blood, and older times. The ancient houses crumble, through time, yes -- but not that quickly. But not your clan. The Choe family and their cadet branches remain a force to be reckoned with, even today."

"We were a branch," Han Byeol agrees. "A branch among many."

She glances up at him. "You're far too modest."

"My family," Han Byeol says, forcing the words out. "They had their pride. Pride that was hard-won, given how the main branch always overshadowed us. We ... we wanted to show we were still strong enough."

"It's always a mistake, to place the weight of pride and expectation on a child's shoulders." Cybele picks up a pen, twirling it idly around her fingers. The sleek, jet-black shape seems to spin and dance in her hand. She stops, tapping it once, twice, against the ornately tooled desk blotter. The mother-of-pearl insignia on the top cap winks and gleams at him in the light.  "They falter. They crumble. They destroy themselves to uphold everything their predecessors stand for, everything they think they should stand for."

"Maybe you're right." Han Byeol meets her gaze -- and finds it too intense, too forceful -- and looks away. "But what's done's been done. The fact is, I don't know who I am now, so I guess I thought I'd go back to the root. The cause." He breathes in sharply, acutely aware of both women's eyes on him. "It wasn't directly his fault, but he's stained his hands with my family's blood."

"Blood begets blood," both Cybeles say. "Violence begets violence. The cycle repeats, like the snake eating its own tail. I know that better than anyone else."

Han Byeol looks the one in front of him in the eyes. "Closure," he says, the word feeling bitter and heavy in his mouth. "That's all I ever really wanted. It's silly, I guess, holding on to something that long."

"Hmm, yes." Cybele's fingers lace and unlace, tapping against the backs of her knuckles. "A childish goal."

"In some respects, I was still a child." Han Byeol concedes, after a while. "Childish grudges hold."

"I know," the one behind him says. For some inexplicable reason, she sounds like she's holding back laughter. "Oh, I know."

Han Byeol grinds his back teeth together, to keep the words in -- at least, until he sounds less insolent, perhaps. "Then why--?"

"Why do I trust his word, why do I keep him within my ranks?" Cybele behind him hums, thoughtful. "I don't know."

"Because he's useful?" the one at the desk asks, and laughs at his expression. "Don't look at me like that, you're silly. Of course I think of people as more than just what they can do for me. People -- and demons -- are more than tools. But then, say, theoretically -- once you get your closure. Then what? What will you do?"

"I don't know," Han Byeol echoes. "I haven't thought that far."

"Silly boy," the Cybele nearer the elevator says -- and Han Byeol doesn't even think to feel patronised, even though he's certain she's not that much older than he is. "Let me guess. Something spiteful and bitter and grandiose to complete your vengeance." She walks closer to him, and he watches her over his shoulder -- but her eyes are fixed on the Cybele before him, the one with the odd eyes. "Let me guess. Your next step was to kill yourself?"

"No, nothing of the sort," Han Byeol replies, though he isn't sure whether it's strictly true, whether he hasn't truly considered it before.

"Hmm. I see." Cybele raises her brows. "I see. So that's why you didn't attempt to finish the job, even after your ambush failed. Even after he stopped, and waited for you to deal the final blow. You were not prepared to die before your goals were achieved, and yet you were not even prepared to take your goal -- and your fate -- into your own two hands."

The facts are laid before him, clear-cut and matter-of-fact; as though she is judge and jury, weighing his actions. In a sense, Han Byeol supposes it's only appropriate; after all, this is what he assumes to be the role of a witch queen. Feeling her eyes on him, he nods, unable to voice a response.

That seems to satisfy her. She leans back in her seat. "So, let me ask you, Choe Han Byeol. What would you do, once you achieve that goal? What would you do? Not as an heir of the Choe clan, but as yourself?"

Han Byeol stares down at his hands, at the glass of the witch queen's desk. "... I don't know. Move on."

"Move on," the Cybele in front of him repeats. Han Byeol has no idea whether she likes his answer, or whether she finds it unsatisfying. "That's a nice thought. What would you do then?"

"I don't know." Han Byeol shifts his weight from foot to foot. "I never thought about that, either."

"The lament of those who spent their lives chasing specific goals, with no great end in sight." She smiles, looking a little rueful. "I can understand."

"Can you?"

She lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Don't worry too much about it, I'm sure your own problems keep you up at night without having to listen to the worries of little old me."

Han Byeol laughs despite himself. "Right. Worries. Sure. From what I know of you, it seems ... strange of you to have them."

Cybele winks. "I'm not as carefree as I look and sound," she says with a completely straight face, and laughs along with him.

"But, I do have a proposition for you," the one behind him says, interrupting the other's laughter. Her heels are muffled against the carpet; she comes to a stop beside him.

"I'm listening," Han Byeol says guardedly, though he knows exactly what her proposition would be.

The Cybele before him stops laughing as abruptly as she began and surveys him, her expression unreadable. "Now then. There are two ways we can go about this. I could treat this as I would any other treasonous act," she says, as though they're discussing the weather or trying to arrange evening drinks, and they're facing the minor issue of conflicting schedules. "I could have you executed, for your act of aggression towards me -- indirect as it may be."

"I understand."

"Good. I'm glad you do, this makes a civil discussion so much easier. Now, as for the alternative -- I could overlook this entire ... unfortunate kerfuffle--" Here, she smiles a little to herself, looking pleased at her word choice, "--and we may yet reach a happy compromise."

Han Byeol wonders if he should wait until she lays out her terms, even if he knows what they are and what she intends. Yet, she doesn't speak, and only tilts her head at him, waiting.

"I'm not working for you," Han Byeol says, after the silence stretches uncomfortably long. "Or at least, not yet."

The witch queen -- or demon, or both, really, because in the end, to him, they're one and the same -- raises her brows. "Ah. Most unfortunate, though I did suspect as much. You have that stubborn look about you, the look that says your mind's already been made up."

"I'm sorry," he says, somewhat stiffly.

"Oh, don't be sorry. But a question, if I may?"

"... I'll answer to the best of my ability."

"Thank you. Now, what would your reasoning behind that be? Surely you haven't gotten that fond of humans and thaumaturgists."

Han Byeol draws in a breath, considering his words carefully. "Please don't misunderstand, your grace," he begins. She stays silent, watching him with polite interest, a cue to continue. "I could be of better use to you in my existing position. Hidden in plain sight."

Cybele leans forwards, chin resting on her laced fingers. "Oh, I see, you're suggesting a third option and trying to pose it as being beneficial to me, are you? Very well, go on, then. Let's see you sell this idea to me. I can almost see the cogs in your head whirring."

Han Byeol spreads his hands, trying to look -- and sound -- respectful. "Isn't it always valuable to keep your allies close, and your enemies closer? Surely it would be more beneficial for me to remain where I am."

"An arrangement that only comes about, due to your unfortunate and troubling predisposition for identity theft," Cybele says without breaking eye contact. Then, she smiles. If anything, it makes Han Byeol even more uneasy. "Not that I'm judging, of course. We all have our own different coping mechanisms."

"It isn't-- it's not a coping mechanism."

"No?" She arches a single brow at him, questioning. "Very well, then, whatever helps you sleep at night. You know, I've been being doing a little bit of research, ever since your good friend told me about you."

"He's no friend of mine," Han Byeol snaps. Cybele doesn't blink; she regards him silently, the shadow of her massive arowana shifting in the glass behind her.

"Let me guess," she says, picking up her pen again. Han Byeol feels frozen by the intensity of her stare, skewered like a display bug on a collector's pin. Not looking at her desk pad, she starts sketching a few lines, studying him intently. "You try to control your lack -- and loss -- of identity, by acquiring any and all you can. Eat, or be eaten, it's the demon's way -- and the way of No Face, elusive witch of unknown origin, who has quite the hobby of surfacing now and then for the express purpose of baiting thaumaturgists, goading them into attempting to rise above their stations. An interesting choice of hobby to have, that."

"Not my fault if they're blinded by their own ambition," Han Byeol mutters. "I just present them an outlet. A convenient one. Doesn't mean they have to take the bait."

"Very rich of you, to be lecturing me about the hubris of mankind. And then, what, you take everything from them, just like how you feel like everything was taken from you," the Cybele closer to him says.

"What a shame," the one at the desk says.

"A fool's reasoning," the one by his side adds. "When will you stop, then?"

"When will you be satisfied?"

Han Byeol opens his mouth, but is cut off before he can continue. "When you've got some semblance of control left in your grasp? When you feel like you can take your own fate and your own life, back into your own two hands?"

"When I find the True Magic," Han Byeol says -- and there, he knows, is the answer he's been looking for. It's the answer he's tried to convince himself he hasn't been searching for, ever since he performed the anchoring rite by the Hell's Gate.

Cybele's eyes narrow. "The True Magic?" she echoes, no longer sounding amused. She stands, and seems to tower before him. "Nobody who has sought the True Magic has found it."

"There's a first time for everything."

"Let me rephrase, then." This time, from the Cybele next to him. "Nobody has been successful in approaching the Root. Nobody alive, anyway. Nobody in any condition to act on their findings and their knowledge of the Akashic Records." She takes a step closer, and seems to loom over him, her shadow vast and unnatural in the downward glare of the lights. "Dead men tell no tales, and likewise, demons tell no truths. They lie, they deceive, they're unable to comprehend and remember what it means to reach the Root."

Han Byeol shrugs, palms raised. "That's why I've been going through so many thaumaturgists, picking through their knowledge and using their resources. Alone, I can't achieve much, but with what they have ... perhaps I'll reach my conclusions there."

Cybele sits back down. "A fool's errand," she says. Her slender fingers tap idly against her desk blotter. After several seconds, she picks up the pen, and draws several more lines across the paper, though her eyes are still fixed on him. "What makes you think you'll succeed, where so many have failed?"

"Youthful idealism," Han Byeol says and smiles a little, despite himself. "Youthful idealism, that was first driven by childish notions of vengeance."

"At least you're honest about it." Cybele laughs drily. "Very well, then. I find your terms and motives ... interesting."

Finally, Han Byeol steps closer, and after a few moments' hesitation, sits down. This close, Cybele Leandros' eyes are piercing, every bit the unnerving stare of a demon from the furthest, deepest reaches of the Naraka. "You called it a fool's errand," he begins. Behind him, he can feel the other Cybele moving closer, stopping just behind his chair. The back presses down slightly; she's rested her hand against the edge, just enough to remind him he's trapped between both versions of the witch queen. "You ... you make it sound like you've attempted to find the True Magic yourself."

"Not me." Cybele sets her pen down; though her hand is covering most of the sheet, Han Byeol can make out the smooth, sweeping arcs of an array, the beginnings of a binding clause penned in neat, crisp lines along the outer edge. Ringing the schematic are interlocked strings of more binding and anchoring clauses, the old script written in long, calligraphic strokes.

The Cybele behind him sighs; she doesn't look angry -- perhaps just a little rueful. "Not me, but others I know. I told them the same thing."

The one at the desk caps her pen, and folds her hands together, fingers laced. Her shadow falls over the schematic, the ink still glistening wetly in the dimming light. Before she can speak, her doppelganger at Han Byeol's shoulder cuts in. "The dead can never truly return," she says, with an air of finality. "That is the essence of the True Magic. There is no True Magic."

"You make it sound like you've seen the answer yourself."

"You learn a lot of things during the Rites," is all she says. "It is precisely because of the foolishness of our predecessors that we created karma demons. Through all those attempts to realise the True Magic, we overstepped our bounds, and, by opening the Way with the Hell's Gates, we brought the restless dead back from the Sea of Samsara."

"Should you be telling me this?" Han Byeol asks. "Aren't these the Truths shared to the witch queens and kings, only once they've earned the right?"

The Cybele with the odd eyes doesn't smile. "You can choose to believe me -- or not. I'm not going to force you to. I'm just trying to spare you."

"Spare me? From what?"

"The truth," she murmurs, so softly that it sends a prickle of unease down Han Byeol's spine. "The disappointment of knowledge. The realisation that, all this time, what you've been working for, perhaps, amounted to nothing."

Han Byeol stands; Cybele stays seated, but watches him, unblinking and unmoving. "Respectfully, your grace," Han Byeol says, and reaches out towards the envelope, long-abandoned on the edge of her desk. He pushes it forward, ever so slightly. "But I wish to seek my own conclusions myself -- even if they turn out to be meaningless. Just as respectfully, I must decline your gracious invitation towards me. At least, for now."

"Of course." Though she remains sitting, Han Byeol is not under any illusions of him having any sort of ideological power or high ground. Despite her words, he doesn't dare break eye contact -- after all, demons can move very fast. "A disappointing outcome, but not an entirely unexpected one. I suppose there's no way of swaying you?"

"I ..." He swallows. "I don't know. At least, not yet." Not daring to blink, he asks, "could you perhaps ... give me some time? I would like to think about it -- and myself -- if it's permissible to you."

She waves her hand in a vague and carefree gesture. "Please, take all the time you need. Don't let it be said that I pressure people into doing whatever I want."

"Your grace?"

A strange look passes across her face, something almost akin to annoyance, or perhaps resignation. "I have a bit of a reputation," the Cybele at his shoulder says. "Some may be rooted in truth, but I find many to be rather unfounded, rather unfortunate." She tuts, softly. "People like to talk, of course."

"Of course," Han Byeol echoes.

The one at the desk scribbles out the schematic she was sketching with brisk, careless strokes of her pen. "I'll wait for your answer, Choe Han Byeol," she says, meeting his eyes. "And until then, I will honour your terms and your demands. When you find your answers ... well, you know where to find me." She bows her head, a formal gestures. "I await your favourable response."

Han Byeol nods and turns to leave, and finds himself facing the other Cybele. Her eyes narrow in amusement; she steps aside and bows, ever so slightly. "I shall escort you downstairs," she says.

He glances back uncertainly, back towards the one at the desk. She's gotten up and crossed to the arowana tank, gazing intently at the fish; her hands are folded behind her back. "Before I go," he begins, and she glances over her shoulder at him.

"Yes?"

"The one who accompanied me upstairs." He meets her burning gaze, one eye hazel, one a livid, unnerving orange-gold. "That was you, wasn't it? The real witch queen?"

She doesn't respond for several seconds. Then, a smile curves across her cheek; Han Byeol can see the long, pale sweep of her lashes, as she shuts her eyes and turns back towards the tank.

"Maybe."

Though he'd suspected it, Han Byeol's heart still jumps to his throat. "Downstairs ... and in the elevator," he begins stiffly. "I said ... some things."

"You said a lot of things," Cybele says, her back still to him. "Including soundly insulting me, and sneering at my motives along the way." She sounds far more pleased than she has any right to. Then, almost immediately, she sobers up. "You also asked me, amongst other things, what I'm trying to achieve."

"I ..." Han Byeol opens and shuts his mouth. "Well, yes, but--"

"Would you believe me, if I said that I don't know, either?" she asks, without turning to face him. "Would you believe me, if I said everything I did was fuelled by childish notions of vengeance, of avenging the dead?"

Han Byeol doesn't respond.

Cybele -- the real one -- laughs. "Just kidding. Hahaha, you should see the look on your face."

"Of course." Han Byeol stares uneasily at the back of her head, at the way her pale hair shines, dyed sunset-gold by the twilight.

"They kept asking me when I'll stop," she says, softer now. "And each time, I never answered them. How dare they, to question my judgement, to question my motives."

He doesn't dare to ask who she means, to ask who she's referring to; she doesn't deign to elaborate.

"Perhaps I, too, wanted my life back. Find the True Magic, and grant my greatest, most selfish wish."

Han Byeol draws in a shaking, unsteady breath. "Your grace. If I may--"

"Yes?"

"Your greatest wish."

"You want to know what it was."

"... yes. If I could be so bold."

"Hmm. Perhaps it's only fair. I did ask you something similar before."

Outside, evening has fallen, the fading orange sky streaked with cobalt; the lights of neighbouring towers and buildings wink through the dimming sky. Even against the pristine glass of the fish tank, Han Byeol can't make out the witch queen's reflection. "Maybe we're not that much different," she murmurs at last, so softly he almost doesn't hear it. "What I'm trying to achieve ..."

She's silent for a long time; so long, that Han Byeol almost decides to turn around and leave.

"Well. I guess I'm just here to have fun. We all fall to the madness of the Spine; in the meantime, I'm simply making sure my way to the deepest, darkest trenches of the Naraka is paved by plenty of quality entertainment."

"I see," Han Byeol says, and turns towards the elevators. Wordlessly, the witch queen's doppelganger follows him into the elevator. He turns around, one last time, before the doors slide shut; Cybele Leandros still resolutely faces the arowana tank, gazing through the glass out to the window. Despite the size of the room, she cuts an imposing -- and yet almost vulnerable -- figure, a pale beacon among the dim sunset light.

"One more thing."

Despite himself, Han Byeol takes a half-step forward.

"I disagree, you know."

"I beg your pardon?"

"About Choe Han Byeol being dead."

"It's true, thou--"

"The living do not exist to serve the dead," the witch queen snarls, and for the first time, there is a hint of anger in her voice.  "Enough with living a lie, enough with abandoning yourself and who you are --  try as you might, you will never be someone else, no matter how perfect your guise, no matter how close your mannerisms. An imitation will never be able to pass as the real thing, no matter how faithful the replica. If you cannot comprehend even that, then I have nothing more to say to you. If you think about nothing else in the time I've given you, then think of that. That's all I want from you. That's the only demand I'll make of you."

She doesn't bid him farewell, and, in the silence, Han Byeol can't bring himself to say anything.

The elevator doors close. They begin to descend.

Alone in the small space with the demon -- the true demon, the one wearing her master's face -- Han Byeol stares resolutely forward; she breaks the silence first.

"It's not often someone can get an honest answer out of her," the demon says. "And it's not often someone can elicit that sort of ... passion out of her."

"Was that passion?" Han Byeol glances towards her. This close, after seeing the real thing, the two are not quite as identical as he originally thought. Where Cybele is sharp and dangerous despite her faded appearance -- the demon is softer, gentler -- deceptively so. There is a fullness to her lips, a softer curve to her shoulders and hips, a vibrancy that seems to linger just under her skin, so different from the witch queen's paleness -- though now, he can see the terrifying inhumanness of her eyes, the shadow of the corpse dragon in her features. In the light, he can see the pale imprint of a scar on her jaw, crawling up the side of her cheek and down her throat. "You're lucky," she says, amused. "She was remarkably forthcoming, to you. In fact, I daresay she likes you."

Han Byeol swallows, attempting to unstick his throat. "Why?"

"Why?" The demon gives him an odd look. "Who knows? I've known her for so long, and I don't even know how she thinks, how she feels, most of the time. We may share a soul bond, but she's always been hard to read."

"A soul bond." He bites down involuntarily at the inside of his cheek. "That's ... heretic magic."

The Heruka gives him what could, at best, be described as a patronising look. "And do you seriously think that would stop my master?"

"Well ... no," Han Byeol says. "I just ... why are you telling me this? Heretic magic. It means she could be tried, herself. Put on trial and judged by the other kings and queens. It's dangerous knowledge to have running around. Particularly in the hands of someone who's not affiliated with her."

The demon’s lips curl into an awful smile. "You think she cares? No. Don’t be stupid. It’s because you have your secrets, and so does she. Think of it ... as a gesture of goodwill.”

"And she's fine with you divulging her secrets to the likes of me? Given who I am, who I'm currently affiliated with? Just a few weeks ago, you all had no idea who I was. Just a few weeks ago, I attempted to kill one of her generals. Actually, no. Make that two. She's right, you know. It's still treason, indirect as it may be."

The demon smiles. "It's in my interests to keep her alive, as well. And I know you won't spread her secrets so carelessly."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She winks, a terrifying echo of her master. "Whatever you take it to mean."

Han Byeol raises his brows. He'd asked her -- or, at least, the one whom he'd thought to be the demon -- the same question, before. "Why don't you make a bid for freedom? All that power, you could survive well enough without a master or an anchor. Witch queen or not, you're a corpse dragon who's lived for thousands of years and have reached the very Root of the Spine itself. It'd be a simple matter to turn against her."

That elicits a laugh out of her. "It goes deeper than that," she says. "It's a simple answer, really."

"Simple?"

"I love her," the demon says, sounding almost affectionate. Her voice is soft, warm -- almost a caress. It sets Han Byeol's teeth on edge, sets his nerves afire with tension. "I've watched over her, protected her, for long enough. I love her to the bottom of my heart, and I will kill anyone or anything that stands in her way."

He laughs before he can stop himself, and regrets it even before it stops ringing through the elevator. "A demon, loving their master? That's perverse."

The demon laughs along with him, loud and unrestrained, every bit like her master. "Almost as perverse as a brother having to take his sister's name and face, to give the illusion of a family still having their principal heir," she agrees, her voice light and pleasant and conversational. "Tell me, how does it feel to be that close to being a demon, with no sense of self or identity? How does it feel, to cling desperately on to whatever it was that defined you, knowing all the while that it was never yours to begin with, and never will be?"

"It feels ..." Han Byeol stares up at the flickering numbers on the elevator display, jumping erratically through the floors. The effect of the Domain must be wavering, the further he gets from its focal point. "It feels like I'd be well-prepared for what comes after if I die. I guess. I can't be afraid of what I already know."

She makes a noise of assent, seemingly pleased with his response. "Ah, yes. The way of the karma demon befits you well. You will make a fine one of us."

The elevator slows, gently, before coming to a stop, opening to the foyer. There, after the dimmed lights of the witch queen's office in dusk, it is blazingly bright. The demon follows behind Han Byeol as he steps out of the elevator, and stops before they reach the entrance. She draws to a halt beside him, and slips an envelope into his hand.

"You'll need this," she says, clasping his hands; she gives the one holding the envelope a friendly pat. Han Byeol nods and turns it over, studying the unbroken wax seal. "Do stay in touch," she adds, with a trace of irony.

"Sure."

"Just a word of warning, before you leave." Han Byeol turns at the sound of the demon's voice. "Just between you and me," she adds and winks. "My master's a fickle one."

"I'll remember that." He walks towards the sliding doors, ad they part silently; the warmth of the night outside rushes towards him.

Though he doesn't turn back, he knows the demon's eyes are on him, watching him leave.

.

For the first week, Han Byeol does nothing.

His life continues as usual; as it always did, before the witch queen of the western mountains first set her burning, monstrous sights on him. He wakes up in the morning not as himself, not as his sister, but, instead, as the thaumaturgist Mayfair. For the first time, he thinks about how quickly, how easily, he settles into the life of another person -- yet another, out of many, too many -- and acutely feels the weight of the witch queen's words, pressing against the edge of his thoughts.

Life carries on. He does paperwork and goes out on reconnaissance, he goes to the same coffee shop -- though not the one where he met the corpse dragon, Cybele Leandros' messenger, whose name he never learnt. A creature of habit he may be, when it's the only thing he has left, but something about the place is irrevocably changed after forming the foundation of the demon's false world upon which its Domain had been built. He's gone back only once since that day, and though the signs of magic have dissipated, though the street corner is the same as it was before with joggers and dog-walkers and feeder buses packed with commuters -- an imprint of the Domain and its maker lingers in the air, down to the brickwork and the cracks in the pavement.

For a short, precious few moments in the mornings, when he's caught between dreaming and waking -- that's when he's himself; that's when he's aware, for the first time in years, that he has the luxury of his own identity, a secret tucked under the sheets and pillows like a keepsake. When the skies are still dove-grey at five in the morning, when the cool of the night before has yet to dissipate -- that's when he truly is himself. Not his sister, not Mayfair, not any of the multitude of thaumaturgists he masqueraded as in the past.

One Monday morning, he wakes up with a nervous energy that bubbles beneath his skin, an itch that he can't quite scratch. Han Byeol studies his reflection in the mirror -- pale and wan, his eyes bloodshot and his skin grey, his hair sticking up on one side and the creases of bedsheets pressed into his cheek. His face looks thinner, sharper than it used to; there are faint shadows under his eyes, which he never noticed before when he woke up in the mornings with Mayfair's face.

He hasn't seen himself properly for years.

When had he gotten that scar, when had his eyes looked like that, hollow and unfocused? When had his hair gotten so long, and when did he first get that crease between his brows? Perhaps the witch queen is right; perhaps he should stop with whatever sham he's enacting.

Han Byeol gets out the razor and clippers he bought years ago, and stares at himself in the mirror. He hasn't looked at his own face in years -- for so long, he's woven the illusion around him as he wakes, stepping into Mayfair, or, before him, Orlov, or, even before her, Blackthorn’s skin, going all the way back to his sister's. His hands shake, a little, when he plugs the clippers in. Its buzzing fills his ears as he runs it over parts of his scalp; when he's done he straightens and runs a hand through his hair, turning his head this way and that. It's more modern than he's used to, and if anything, Han Byeol feels like he looks even less like himself. Perhaps that's the point.

That, and he's not done a very tidy job. He'll need to get it done properly at some point.

He methodically tidies up the bathroom, avoiding his reflection as he does. In a fit of impulsiveness, he dresses in weekend clothes instead -- jeans, a sweater, digs out a scarf he actually likes from somewhere in the dresser. He calls Mayfair's superior, at the Magisterium, and leaves a message with her secretary, a lie about feeling under the weather, and hangs up before they can reply. He dials another number after that, and the call picks up after several rings.

"Hello?"

"Akizuki," he says, and clears his throat. "Akizuki, it's ... it's me."

"Oh," she says, guarded. Then, after a long pause, "Blackthorn?" she asks.

"Mayfair," he clarifies, hoping it's enough.

"I see." There's some warmth in Akizuki's voice. Or maybe he's just imagining things -- how pathetic, is he really that desperate for some sort of human contact? "It's been a long time. I hope you've been well."

Akizuki has always been rather stiff and formal, from what little Han Byeol knows of her. He's grateful for it, at any rate; grateful for the cautious distance she maintains, even after she knows him. Or perhaps, just because she knows him.

"I need to talk to you about something. Some things, rather. Would you be able to meet--?"

There's a pause at the other end, so long Han Byeol starts to wonder if Akizuki has already hung up. After a while, she says, "this is most unusual. Where are you located at the moment?"

He gives her his branch location, the city. "I could perhaps make the next weekend," Akizuki says, after another long silence, undoubtedly after consulting a calendar. Something rustles on the other end of the line; Han Byeol can hear her voice, muffled, as she talks to someone else.

"Sorry," she says when she returns to the call. Then, she adds, "are you at work as well?"

Han Byeol makes a noncommittal noise. "Next weekend sounds good, thank you. I'll see you then," he says in a rush, before Akizuki can say anything else, and terminates the call.

Then, he begins to pack. Nothing elaborate, nothing much -- just the bare essentials. He retrieves an old hockey bag from somewhere in the back of Mayfair's closet, the logos on the side faded and worn with age. There isn't really much to put inside -- some clothes, toiletries, wads of cash he's kept in scattered locations around his apartment in preparation for his next move. His next jump. His next body-snatch, so to speak. The notes are slightly bent and wrinkled, inclined to curling back onto themselves; his fingers reek of money, sweet yet metallic. 

Pride of place in his getaway bag goes to a long, irregularly-shaped mass wrapped in towels, crudely stuffed into a duffel bag. The pommel of a sword juts out from between the towels, peeking through the parted teeth of the zipper. Han Byeol rearranges the makeshift wrappings slightly, tightening the zip-ties around the bundle to hold it in place better. Even through all the layers of cloth, he imagines he can feel the chill of the sword underneath.

After that he leaves the house, careful to wear Mayfair's appearance around his own. He thinks about turning off his -- no, Mayfair's -- phone and lobbing it into the bay, but the time isn't quite right yet. Frustrated, he stuffs it back in his pocket, and ignores all the calls and messages that trickle in. There's still a ruse to be built, still a story to be spun.

At a loss as to what to do next, he traces a listless path through the city blocks, shedding pieces of Mayfair's identity as he goes. The identity and access cards, bank and credit cards, licenses and the like, he keeps for the moment. There are better ways to stage a disappearance; many thaumaturgists died while facing contractors, or witches, or demons, or even other thaumaturgists. He would know that, after all the disappearances he's had a hand in.

He hadn't been certain how long he'd hold on to Mayfair's identity, but this is the final impetus he needs. Satisfied with the plan formulating at the back of his mind, Han Byeol goes to another cafe -- this one far, far away from the cornerside one he used to frequent -- and buys some overpriced sandwich, and walks through the city park. He's never had the time or inclination to before, not when he was living as Mayfair, executor and thaumaturgist with little free time on his hands. The weather is still cool for the time of the year, though not unbearable; there are plenty of other people out and about the park for a weekday morning.

The sandwich tastes like cardboard; he finds himself unable to eat, despite the hunger that gnaws at the pit of his stomach. How strange; it's always been one of his favourites -- filled with grilled turkey, with a spread of cranberry jam. Han Byeol sits down on one of the many park benches scattered near the footpaths, taking one that faces a large manmade lake. A gaggle of ducks and ibises wander up to him; a handful of gulls land by the grass and perch on the edge of the garbage bins, edging closer when they think he isn't watching. He tears off portions of crusty bread and tosses it at the birds; they are soon joined by a flock of pigeons, and even a crow or raven or two.

One of the crows surveys him with bright, beady eyes, head cocked inquisitively to the side. It opens its beak and caws, a sharp and raucous cry. Han Byeol glances around, than back at the bird. A thin silver ring glints around one of its legs; the bird unfurls its glossy black wings and shakes out its feathers, watching him all the while.

A young man wanders past his bench; he's soberly dressed, in greys and blacks, a dark blazer over a colourblocked blue-grey shirt. He walks with an odd gait -- almost a limp, favouring his left leg. The crow hops towards the man, then glances back towards Han Byeol, before seemingly making a decision. It flies away, skimming low over the dark-haired man's head, its feathers almost brushing against his short hair. He doesn't even glance up, and continues on his way.

Seized by a wild burst of energy -- fueled, primarily, by the knowledge of the eventual meeting that looms before him -- Han Byeol tosses the rest of his sandwich, still intact, onto the grass. The birds squall and squabble in an effort to claim the biggest portion of the prize. One seagull squawks angrily, and jabs its beak at another bird; in the distraction, the other crow still lurking at the fringes of the gaggle of birds swoops in and seizes the remains of the sandwich. It takes off, retracing the path its companion took just moments earlier. The sun gleams off its dark, glossy feathers, the backs of its wings shining a faint, iridescent purple-green even in the pale light that peeks from the overcast sky.

A seagull shrieks and draws its head back -- and plunges its beak into the back of a pigeon's neck. Startled, Han Byeol blinks -- it is not blood shining dark and wet and red on the pigeon's feathers, but, instead, clumps of cranberry jam. The seagull spreads its wings and retreats, a morsel of bread snatched away in its beak.

Han Byeol stares at the pigeon for several moments more, uncertain -- perhaps it is residual disorientation from exposure to more than one powerful Domain in a short period of time; he doesn't know. Was the park always this empty at this time of the day? Were birds always that vicious, squabbling over scraps of food? He has no idea -- and, for the first time, he feels a vague sense of loss at not bothering to go outside and see what the rest of the world has been up to, while he's been cooped up in some office or another, plotting half-hearted dreams of revenge.

The rest of the week follows in that vein; Han Byeol doesn't return to Mayfair's home, and instead takes up residence at a hotel, under a less conspicuous cover identity. He calls the Magisterium from various payphones around the city, each time taking care to sound increasingly cornered, increasingly at edge; the ruse flows much smoother, much easier than he'd ever thought he would, and on Thursday he hangs up after saying something about the reappearance of the faceless witch, and making a second attempt at confrontation.

On Friday night he goes to an address Akizuki sends him, and finds himself in an izakaya filled with rowdy businessmen in the midst of what must be their thirtieth round of drinks. The smell of smoke hangs low in the air, a heavy haze lingering over the heads of the izakaya's patrons, over the wooden tabletops. It smells of alcohol, too -- strong, sharp rice wine and spirits, sweet and heady. Han Byeol squeezes into a seat at the counter, next to a tall, slender woman with long, dark hair, shot through with white. Everything about her is long, harsh lines and sharp angles; from the cut of her hair, to the planes of her face; at first glance, she looks much the same as she did before, the last time he met her -- he can't quite remember how long ago it was now; perhaps it was a year, or perhaps even ten.

They sit in silence for several minutes, counterpoint to the rest of the izakaya's noisy patrons. After a while, the woman gestures for more sake and fills a cup for him. They drink.

"You're looking well," Akizuki Yodzuru says without turning her head. Han Byeol strongly suspects it's her idea of being funny. It's hard to tell sometimes, with Akizuki -- though he doesn't know her well enough to gauge what her sense of humour is like, outside of their rare and sporadic meetings. He runs a self-conscious hand through his hair -- he hasn't had the time or inclination to have his slipshod work tidied up. "Thanks, you too," he replies, at a loss for a better response. Behind them, the party of businessmen call for a noisy toast. And then another. Akizuki raises her cup silently, and drinks along with them.

"Is that your real face?" she asks, breaking the silence between them. She's barely audible over the music, over the sound of the businessmen now attempting to coordinate the ordering of another round of drinks.

Han Byeol ducks his head -- and immediately feels foolish, without his sister's longer fall of hair to hide behind. He feels self-conscious, meeting Akizuki for the first time without wearing another identity. "... how did you know? It could be anyone. It could be Mayfair."

Akizuki makes a tiny sound that sounds almost like a scoff. "I know Mayfair," she says, studying the calligraphy on the side of the tiny earthenware sake bottle. "Or at least, I did, before I heard news about him pursuing No Face." She levels her gaze at him. Her expression is neutral; it betrays nothing about what she thinks -- or thought -- of Mayfair. "I taught him, you know. For a short time, at the Garden. It must've been ... hm. Maybe fifteen years ago. Always a bit brash and reckless, as the youth tend to be." Han Byeol can feel her eyes on him; even though he knows she doesn't know anything about him, or his past, he can't help but feel judged.

"Oh." He has no idea how to respond to her newest revelation. "Um. My condolences? He fought well."

"Good. I'm glad." Han Byeol has no idea whether Akizuki is joking or not. "You must have studied him for a long time, to integrate so seamlessly into his life."

If that's her idea of a compliment, it's a rather strange one. "I did what I could."

"No doubt." She's still looking at him, a slight furrow between her brows.

"What is it?"

"The last few times I met you. That was someone else, but it was someone that looked a lot like you."

Han Byeol stays silent, but Akizuki doesn't seem terribly interested in pursuing the topic. Instead, she pushes a menu towards him and leaves one for herself, and spends a rather long time perusing the appetisers.

"I dare say, you look a lot better like this." Akizuki says, still gazing intently at the menu. She flips a page. "It might sound a bit strange, but ... it suits you. Your own appearance, I mean. You look less ... cornered. Less like you're expecting an ambush of some kind to jump out from behind the umbrella-stand. You should wear your own face more often."

Akizuki, he decides, has a distinctly strange brand of humour -- if it can even be called that. He wonder if it's her idea of being droll -- surely she can tell how little sleep he's been getting, from keeping a low profile to evade the witch queen's attention, as well as to keep up the farce of being an increasingly fanatic Mayfair hellbent on revenge. "Oh. Thank you, I guess."

He leaves her to order, taking time to peruse the menu himself; while many things have changed, while he’s gotten further and further from himself and who he’s supposed to be, Han Byeol takes a small degree of comfort from still being able to read the menu, from being able to understand the rapid-fire exchange between Akizuki and their waitsperson. She orders grilled eel and sashimi, edamame and pickled seared mackerel; salt-grilled saury, their bellies stuffed with spicy cod roe, and crispy stingray fin, baked and savoury. The person taking her order loudly and cheerfully tries to cajole her into getting the night's special -- deep-fried flounder, only three left. From the way Akizuki smilingly concedes, it’s clear she’s a regular.

"You seem to have connections everywhere," Han Byeol whispers to her, once the waitsperson leaves. "Even though you don't even live in this city."

Akizuki places the spare menus to the side, stacking them into a neat pile. "Never underestimate the importance of good food," she says, very seriously. "Especially when it reminds you of home. A taste of the familiar makes an unfamiliar place feel more welcoming."

The food arrives surprisingly quickly; conversation between them stills, in favour of eating. Caught in indecision as he tries to figure out what to try first, Han Byeol goes for the flounder; it’s hot and crisp on the outside, yet still fluffy on the inside. He compliments Akizuki on her choice and she cracks a rare smile; it softens her sharp features. After the first dish, Han Byeol finds himself suddenly ravenous, after the past week flitting around like a ghost; if Akizuki finds his conduct indelicate, she doesn't say anything, and only pushes the dishes towards him.

"What did you want talk to me about?" she asks once the first set of dishes have been cleared away. She sets down her chopsticks and refills his sake cup. There's a sharp, understated elegance to her movements, to the way she pours the sake. Han Byeol vaguely remembers something about her being a daughter of one of the lesser noble families, or a retainer, or something of the sort. Perhaps that isn't even true; he has no idea how reliable his memories are now, especially when he doesn't even remember anything about himself.

"And why me, in particular?" Akizuki continues, still not quite looking at him -- but Han Byeol knows she's alert, wary, anticipating his response. "Forgive me for saying so, but we're hardly what you'd consider ... friends."

"No," Han Byeol agrees. The sake is pleasantly warm in his throat, the flavour clean and smooth and distinct. "But there's nobody else I can go to."

"It must be pretty bad, if the only one you can turn to is a disgraced witch, guilty of treason," Akizuki says drily. At the large table behind them, the businessmen break into song, loud and over-enthusiastic and confidently off-key in the way that only drink singers are. Akizuki grimaces a little, but doesn't do anything further.

Han Byeol laughs, despite himself. "I guess you can say we're on the same boat."

"Pardon me?"

"Treason. I mean, I guess technically that's what I'm guilty of. You know, you act against any agent of the witch queen, and it's tantamount to acting against her, too. I don't have a lot of options."

"No, I suppose not," Akizuki says, thoughtful. She picks up an edamame pod and shells it carefully, but doesn't say anything else. If Han Byeol didn't know better, he'd almost swear there's a trace of amusement in her eyes. "So, whom did you offend?"

"Do you know Cybele Leandros?" Han Byeol asks without preamble.

Akizuki's hands twitch slightly; an edamame bean slips from her fingertips and bounces to the floor. "Why do you ask?"

"So you do know her, then?"

Akizuki says nothing for a long time. Several more dishes arrive in the meantime -- fried silken tofu in dipping sauce; chargrilled squid; deep-fried chicken wings, stuffed with minced pork; crescent-shaped fried dumplings, still steaming from the pan.

"You wouldn't be asking me that sort of question without already knowing the answer yourself," Akizuki says over a portion of grilled squid. "But more to the point, there are few who don't know who Cybele Leandros is -- and even fewer who actually know _who_ she is, if that makes sense."

"It does, yes. And frankly, it doesn't really surprise me."

Akizuki glances at him. There are faint spots of pink, high in her cheekbones. It's been a few years since he last saw her, but there is a weariness to her, a resignation that had perhaps already taken root before. She tucks a long, dark lock of hair behind an ear and leans forward on the table, gazing broodingly at the food. "I'm sure you have plenty more contacts who can provide you with better answers, who can perhaps guide you along better with whatever is weighing on your mind. Instead you choose to contact an acquaintance, whom you barely even know?"

Han Byeol tries to smile. "There aren't many disgraced generals still left alive."

"No," Akizuki says, stabbing her squid with her chopsticks in a sudden burst of viciousness. The motion reminds Han Byeol, fleetingly, of a stork spearing prey with its beak. "But it's hardly meant to be common knowledge. Where did you hear that from?"

"You have a bit of a reputation," Han Byeol says. It's not technically the truth, but it's not technically a lie, either -- Akizuki is correct; her history is not as widely-known as he's trying to imply. Placatingly, he pushes the dipping sauce and pickles towards her, and she douses her squid. "People talk, especially in the Bureau and Magisterium. But that aside, it's in my best interest to know a lot of things, and to be able to uncover even more."

"Unfounded rumours," Akizuki grumbles. "They're just speculating."

Han Byeol waits until she's finished the squid, before he asks again. "Cybele Leandros?" he prompts.

Akizuki leans back with a sigh. "What can I say? The fact that you're asking me means you already know something of her, and of our shared history. She's ... difficult to read."

"I'm sorry, but I was hoping you'd tell me something I don't know."

Akizuki sets down her chopsticks on their rest, and takes a long, measured drink of her sake. She pours herself another cup, but doesn't drink immediately. "If there's one thing you take from this meeting, it's this: do not underestimate her."

Han Byeol thinks of the woman with the demon's eye, standing at her desk, her palms splayed on the glass top, his stake quivering where she’s left it, stabbed through several stacks of files piled on top of her desk blotter. He thinks of her pale hair, of the faint hint of the arrays he could see on her arms. He thinks of the demon that looks exactly like her, yet slightly different at the same time; he thinks of the weight of her words, heavy as any malediction. "I know."

"Do you, really?" Akizuki turns to face him squarely for the first time. Despite the amount of alcohol she's consumed, her grey eyes are sharp and piercing. "I'm not telling you not to trust her -- if anything, she honours her word. You can wager your life on that. But the exact terms, the semantics -- that's where she traps you. All I'm saying is, tread carefully with her."

"I see." Han Byeol drinks his sake, far too fast. "Anything else I must know?"

"Be careful when you make deals with her. Beware the beast that treads softly and gently into the night, as they say. She can be kind, yes, but you don't become a witch queen through kindness alone."

"I see," Han Byeol says again. He helps himself to some tofu; it's pleasantly hot, the flavours subtle and complex in a way he isn't quite expecting.

"She let me live." Akizuki says as he's eating. She gazes down at her long, slim fingers, laced together in front of her. "Even though it was well within her power -- and rights -- to kill me."

"And you're questioning it?"

Akizuki sighs. "Any other witch king or queen -- any other sane one, perhaps -- would make it a point to get rid of anything that may compromise them, or their positions. A renegade, treasonous general -- that's as big a liability as any.” She rolls up a sleeve, and even with the dim light, Han Byeol can see the faint outline of the schematic on her forearm, almost like an old scar. He knows the magic is wound inextricably into her skin and bones, seared into her veins and flesh, into the very currents of the magic conduits within her. Akizuki runs a fingertip down the inside of her forearm, tracing the imprint of the array.

“And yet, she let me live; what's more, she let me live, without once using the Noblesse Oblige against me. Knowing full well she could tear it right out of me, as it is her every right to. Others would have done it without question, you know, the moment they had any reason to question my loyalties ... and all along, she always knew my loyalties never truly lay with her. Not entirely, anyway."

"Oh?"

"She knew what she was doing," Yodzuru says, gazing, unseeing, at her forearm. "She knew what she was doing when she accepted me into her ranks. She knew what she was doing when she seared the Noblesse Oblige into me; she knew all the had to do was rip it out of me -- and I'd never be a liability to her, ever again. And yet, she didn't. Now, why would she do what she did?"

Han Byeol shrugs, though he knows Akizuki is not seriously demanding an answer out of him. "I thought you would be able to tell me."

To his surprise, Akizuki laughs. "You'd think so, yes. But there you have it, that is the truth of Cybele Leandros. She doesn't care for logic, or sense, or practicality. She knows I can't do anything to her -- not directly, anyway. I have no chance of defeating her, or bringing her down. She knows it. I know it. Is she treating me like a plaything, like an experiment? Yes. Yes, she is. Can I do anything about it?"

"Do you want to?" Han Byeol's voice drops almost to a murmur, despite the escalating volume of the rest of the izakaya patrons. Nevertheless, Akizuki seems to hear him, loud and clear.

She gives him a look that's almost equal parts disbelief, and, more faintly, disgust. "No. I can't. Don't be stupid."

"There are other ways you can harm her too. After all, you work with her enemies. With the Bureau of Thaumaturgy."

"Ah." Akizuki stares into the lanterns illuminating the izakaya counter. "Of course. There are plenty of ways to harm a person, other than directly attacking them. Swords and fists are but one way to hurt a person, and she knows that better than I do. I'm not under any illusions about being able to outmaneuvre her." She smiles, a dry, brittle thing. "Creativity and imagination was never my strong suit."

"Could it be," Han Byeol begins slowly, testing the words on the edges of his teeth, "that you don't want to turn against her?"

Akizuki affixes him with a level stare; she doesn't quite bristle, but Han Byeol decides it would be best to leave that train of thought. "That's neither here nor there, Choe."

"You know, I've noticed something." Han Byeol picks up his sake cup and swirls it around slightly; the liquid within sloshes against the sides of the stoneware. He has no idea how much he's drunk tonight. "Despite everything, despite your so-called betrayal, you still ... you still speak very admiringly of her."

"And why wouldn't I?" Akizuki asks. There's a trace of a smile at the corner of her mouth, but there's no mirth there. "She commanded -- still commands -- respect."

"And fear?"

Akizuki's gaze slides away, momentarily. "And fear," she confirms, more softly. "But even beyond that, to an extent, old loyalties are still binding. Just ... not as much as others."

"Pardon me for saying this, but ..." Han Byeol hesitates, uncertain if he should continue. "A lot of people seem to hold her in some sort of esteem. I met some interns, and some other guy -- her brother, she said -- while we were on our way to the meeting."

Akizuki leans forwards a little. "Interns?"

"Yeah. Two young guys. One blond, kinda loud dresser. The other one had dark hair and walked with a limp."

For the first time, Akizuki's wearing an expression that isn't a slightly different shade of weary resignation. "How was he? Was he well?"

"Um." Han Byeol studies her out of the corner of his eye. "I guess? He seemed well enough. Seemed to be on good enough terms with the witch queen. That's my point, though. Your response reminds me a little of the one her demon gave me."

"Her demon?" For a moment, Akizuki looks a little confused. "Oh, you mean the corpse dragon?"

"Well, yes. How many are there?"

Akizuki snorts. "That's a conversation for another time. I never saw much of it myself."

Han Byeol rubs at the glaze of his cup with a thumbnail. "The demon ... it said it loved her."

"It, and many others. To be loved, to be feared, and to be respected." Akizuki ticks them off her fingers, and laughs shortly. "The holy trifecta. And yet, she attracts all those emotions simply by virtue of who and what she is. And how she is. She's ... a commanding presence. Blood begets blood, and violence begets violence. Cybele is unafraid of paying, and above all, she's unafraid of wagering herself in her own games. Unlike many of the old blood -- she isn't afraid of sacrifice. It's a respectable philosophy."

_Sacrifice_. Han Byeol sets his cup down before he can drop it. How he hates the sound of that word, the hiss of its syllables.

When it's apparent that he cannot eat any more, Akizuki stands. "I'll take the bill," she says, before he can even open his mouth to get a protest in. Han Byeol watches her as she settles their account; she cuts a tall and imposing figure, straight-backed and poised, yet lacking the same confident ease that Cybele wears like a second skin. When she returns, she only scowls at Han Byeol's attempt to pay her back. "You're not a regular here," is all she says, brusque and to the point.

They're among the last patrons left; the noisy gaggle of businessmen are quieter in their drowsiness, subdued after an excess of celebration. Han Byeol helps Akizuki into her coat and together, they exit into a dry, chilly breeze.

Akizuki straightens her spine, wrapping her scarf tighter around her neck; she looks almost like a bird puffing its feathers up against the cold. "To obtain, something of equal value must be lost." Here, she turns to face Han Byeol squarely, her expression unreadable. "I'm sure you're very familiar with the concept, and what it means at a base level. Many -- especially among the older thaumaturgical houses -- wouldn't think of using themselves, or anything of their own, to make that exchange. Some people ... well, they think nothing of it. That is what sets Cybele apart. That is what makes her so compelling, so magnetic. They say the truest lieges are the ones at the forefront of the vanguard in every battle, and the last to retreat if things go wrong. That's the sort of person she is."

"I see." Han Byeol stuffs his hands into his pockets, and turns, facing the road. A slight wind picks up, sending dry, cracking leaves flying. "Thank you for telling me all this."

They part ways silently, with no fanfare and no farewells. Han Byeol can hear the sound of Akizuki's boots, crunching against frozen grit.

Her footsteps stop. Her voice is clear, and quiet, almost lost in the gale. "If you want to know about her, perhaps you should watch her for herself. When was the last time you attended a Congregation?"

"Uh," Han Byeol mumbles, rather ineloquently. "I don't know. Not for a long time, I guess."

"Do yourself a favour, then. Go attend one. The next one is in about two weeks."

"It is?"

"Yes." Han Byeol turns, to see Akizuki giving him an odd look. "I know you're very ... disconnected from ... us, what with living amongst humans and thaumaturgists for so long. Still, it would do you good to remember your roots. At least, even a little."

Han Byeol doesn't respond, immediately. He thinks of Akizuki living and working amongst humans, in plain sight amongst thaumaturgists. "Do you--"

"No." 

"Why not?"

Something resembling a smile curls at the corner of her mouth. "Cybele may have seen fit to leave me be, but I can't say the same of the other kings and queens. For all intents and purposes, I gave up the rights to her protection." She pause, still smiling -- but there's no mirth there. "The witch kings and queens can never really see eye-to-eye on a lot of matters, but they can agree on one thing: nobody likes a traitor."

.

Days pass. Han Byeol stares at the witch queen's summon edict lying on his bedside table, innocuous as any other letter. If he didn't know better, it could be nothing more pressing than an overdue gas or utilities bill, a relic from Daniel Mayfair's life.

Speaking of Daniel Mayfair -- his time is running out. Not just because he's trying to evade the Magisterium, not just because he's finally woken up and has had enough of running and hiding and living as someone else. The witch queen's words float, unbidden, across his mind when he least expects it; he can still see her golden eyes and her strange half-smile. More than once, he falls asleep, and wakes up to a pressure on his chest and a tightness in his throat. Sometimes, in the haze of sleep, he thinks he sees the golden eyes of her demon, the one that looks just like her, looming over him with her hands around his neck. Always, always, he shakes and shivers and judders awake just as she presses her slender thumbs into the base of his throat, and digs her nails into the skin. Sometimes, she leans in close to him, her pale hair forming a curtain around their faces. _Your time is running out._

It wouldn't seem too far-fetched to think she put it past her to have placed a curse on him, somehow -- a conduit through which her demon can haunt him, perhaps, goading him towards a decision. He doesn't know whether to believe her, or the demon, or Akizuki; perhaps her kindness is a ruse. After all, one does not earn power such as hers through kindness alone.

That wouldn't explain the other dreams, though.

Sometimes, sometimes, the figure that leans over him wears a smooth, carved mask, one side pitted and worn and cracked, the mineral dyes long-faded. Sometimes, sometimes, her eyes are hazel and blood drips through the cracks on the mask, through the cuts and gashes and bruises on her skin. Sometimes, sometimes, he spits and brushes her hair out of his nose and mouth and knows,even without having to see her face, that it's his sister, back to haunt him. Sometimes, sometimes, her blood drips hot and wet and sticky through the cracks and gaps in the mask, landing on his face; sometimes, sometimes, the mask splits and opens, the carved fox-face's jaws yawning impossibly wide. Imulgi snaps at him, a beast with a fledgling corpse dragon's face and his sister's body, wearing the ruined clan mask he hasn't worn for decades; its breath is hot and wet on his face, blood and slaver dribbling from its jaws and teeth. Once, when he wakes up -- clawing and struggling and fighting against the fugue of sleep that clings to him, with ghostly fingers wrapped around his face and twined in his hair -- he finds the air-conditioning vent overhead leaking, dripping onto his face.

For several moments after that, he lies still, blinking afterimages of masked faces out of his eyes. Everywhere he looks, he thinks he sees her, scraps of a nightmare imprinted on the backs of his eyelids. _Drip, drip_. The air-conditioning vent dribbles cold water onto his face. His pillowcase is wet.

After that, he takes to sleeping on the sofa. From his vantage point there, at least, he doesn't have to see his reflection in the television screen when he wakes up shaking and sweating from dreams. 

He knows what's causing this, what's causing the resurgence in old nightmares that refuse to go away. That's what he gets, Han Byeol supposes, for dabbling in affairs that he should rightly have left alone. It's a little bit too late for regrets and what-could-have-beens, when there's a sword in the corner of his hotel room with the dregs of his sister's ghost bound in the metal. He's never stopped to think about it before -- never had the time or inclination to when he's running between lives, chasing the next identity. 

_Are you here to visit?_ he asks -- and he doesn't dare say anything out loud, lest he actually disturbs something from beyond the furthest reaches of the Naraka. _I made sure to go back and retrieve only the bare essentials. Some clothes. Some money. You. Your sword and your ghost. Is it fine? Is it enough?_

_You should have thought about that first. The dead should stay dead,_ the ghost of his sister murmurs to him. _Not anchored to assuage the guilty consciences of the living._

"Shut up," Han Byeol says. The room is silent; the air conditioning hums back at him, a quiet white-noise drone. 

_Is that any way to talk to your older sister?_

"Shut up," he says again. His teeth chatter; he draws the duvet tighter around himself. The leaking vent continue to drip over the bed; he should call room service before they start charging him for water damage.

_And here I was, thinking you felt bad about me being dead._

"I did. I do."

_Even though it's your fault everything ended this way?_

"I didn't kill you," Han Byeol says, and sucks in a sharp, stuttering breath as he does. The demon neither agrees, nor disagrees; she only sounds pensive. 

_You brought me back,_ is all she says. _Then, or at least, you brought what you thought was me, back. That makes all the difference, you know._

"I know," he says. Propped up against the side of an armchair, the nameless sword that used to be his sister's seems to wink at him, the end of the pommel and a sliver of blade peeking through its shroud of towels; the metal gleams too bright and harsh in the dim light. Han Byeol gets out of the sofa and wraps the sword up in the crumpled bedsheets, swaddling it almost like a baby. Perhaps it's his imagination, with the way the cold of the metal seems to seep through the linen, nipping into the skin of his arms. He thinks, momentarily, of tucking it away in the vestibule, and finally settles for depositing it in the bathtub. It feels stiff and heavy in his arms -- not quite big enough to be a body, but yet reminding him unpleasantly of one. For a moment -- fleetingly -- he wonders if he should fill the tub up, if water will muffle the voice of the dead, drowned demon that bears his sister's name like a stolen jewel. 

No, that's stupid. If anything, water will only serve to amplify it.

Instead he leaves the sword in the empty tub, wrapped and shrouded like a corpse. Back outside, he places the coffee-pot on the mattress, right beneath the leaking vent, to catch the water. Each drop is a staccato tap against the glass, distractingly loud and rhythmic over the hum of the air-conditioning. He still can't sleep.

Curled up on the couch, Han Byeol can see the numbers on the digital clock on the nightstand, ticking down the hours until the morning. On the third day after he meets Akizuki, he finally extricates himself from his room and visits another cafe, and buys another sandwich he has no intention of eating. This time, he avoids the park.

On the way back to the hotel, he makes a decision. Han Byeol makes his way to one of his safehouses in the city -- not that it can even be called that. It's more a glorified storage facility than anything else, a place for him to collect his stolen armoury of demon weapons and thaumaturgical goods, long liberated from their original owners. For well over an hour, he does nothing, content to sit on the floor and deliberate his next course of action. Escape and evading the witch queen is illogical -- not when he has already attracted her attention, not when she's already gone out of the way to extend a proposition to him. Similarly, fighting her is a notion so foolhardy, he puts it out of mind immediately.

In the end, he leaves nearly empty-handed, save for a plain box just longer than his forearm. The derringer inside bumps and clatters against the wood of the box; it feels like a leaden weight in his arms as he carries it back to the hotel.

Han Byeol doesn't remember who he took it from. Or rather -- he doesn't want to remember. It's a old weapon, unrefined; it bears the mark of Minamoto Eri's work, in the anchoring schematics carved into the barrel and stock, anchoring arrays looping around the metal in smooth, serpentine strokes. Yes, he remembers it now -- years ago, Akizuki had mentioned Minamoto wanting to experiment with more complex demon weapons, with anchoring demons to things with far more complex mechanisms than simple melee weapons. Evidently, she'd had some successes along the way.

And yet, when he picks the gun up, it doesn't respond to his touch -- perhaps the demon that formed its foundation has withered away.

Back in his hotel room, with the derringer heavy in his hands, Han Byeol breathes in, and then out.

He hasn't called reception to see about fixing the air conditioning yet. He's turned the temperature up as far as it can go -- something is definitely wrong with the system, if it's still getting cold enough for his breath to fog against the dull metal of the gun, steaming against its barrel. 

Han Byeol flicks his thumb against the safety -- but not enough to turn it off. His next course of action is simple enough -- attend a Mass, and gain some -- laughable -- semblance of an insight as to how Cybele Leandros' mind works. Mayfair's next course of action, on the other hand, is rather more esoteric.

Mayfair had effectively set in motion a chain of events through his last communication with headquarters. According to Han Byeol's dubious calculations, it's been a week since he's cut off contact with the Magisterium and sequestered himself in a hotel room. He has another week to kill; another week to kill until he can decide on his next agenda -- resurface as Mayfair, or take Leandros' bait. Neither seem terribly appealing; he's still trapped, either way. Doubtless, the Magisterium has sent out feelers to Mayfair's old home already -- and found nothing but an impeccably-tidied house, for all intents and purposes waiting for an owner to return.

Suicide could work; frustration at failing to reach a target, at an obsession on a case gone wrong. It will all depend on what he can find when he revisits the site of Mayfair's death. The derringer smells of iron and gun oil, and is warm from his mouth. When he swallows, he can feel the cold circle of metal against his skin.

The air conditioner churns and grates out a quiet complaint. Han Byeol flinches at the sound, finger twitching against the trigger of the gun. Careful, now. It's a good thing it isn't loaded, a good thing it hasn't been live for over a decade. Thoughtful, Han Byeol taps the muzzle of the gun against his cheek. No matter what approach he takes to faking Mayfair's second death -- he'll need a body. Perhaps he'll dredge something up from the Hell's Gate he lured Mayfair to. Dead, drowned things tended to resurface time and time again, anyway, all the more unrecognisable for the time they've spent in the Sea of Samsara.

.

Han Byeol never makes it a habit to revisit the scenes of old crimes -- not that anybody would know any better. Still, the Hell's Gate he'd lured Mayfair to is reasonably out of the way, a good two hours by train from the nearest city centre. Even though the nameless sword and the derringer are wrapped in layers of towels and bedsheets and disguised with illusory magic, he still feels nervous bringing them on board the train with him -- but they are necessities, in case he has to put more work into making the scene of Mayfair's death more convincing.

The Hell's Gate looks like an innocuous enough creek -- save for the abnormal silence, save for the stillness of its waters, the surface dark as a blackened mirror. Sometimes, the tides of the Naraka bring old bodies to the surface; after days of studying almanacs, he's reasonably certain the tide will be rising today -- and there are always things to be found then. The body that Han Byeol retrieves could be anywhere between a week old, or a decade. Either way, he'll make to make do with whatever he can find.

At the edge of the creek, he puts on a pair of alchemy gloves -- warded and spelled, built to withstand exposure to demon miasma at least -- and snaps on a larger pair of surgical gloves over them. There's a pale shape bobbing in the water, sinking by the moment; he can't waste a moment.

When he grabs hold of the thing in the water, he's met with resistance. Setting his teeth, Han Byeol pulls with both hands; the waters release the body reluctantly, sloughing off in stubborn tendrils that crawl with multitudes of eyes, fine as seed-pearls. He's reasonably pleased with his discovery, finding a body this intact and well-preserved is unusual in itself. Well-preserved, were it not for most of the upper back being eaten away. Han Byeol wrinkles his nose when his fingers slide between the bones; at least the exposed ribs and spine make for good handles by which to bodily haul the corpse out. The clothes catch and drag in the water, attempting to pull the body back; Han Byeol tugs harder, until it's halfway out of the water.

He turns the body over, and is greeted by the sight of Mayfair's face. Pale and wan, the hair now a stark white, but familiar nonetheless. Mayfair's eyes are open, wide and staring and unseeing; the irises are almost pale and translucent. It's a good thing that Mayfair's body is didn't travel far, borne away by the tides in the Naraka; it eliminates the necessity of burning the body past the point of recognisability, to the point where even fingerprints and dental records won't be able to identify it. It's just as well that it's Mayfair's body that washes up, too -- it still bears the marks of their duel together; there won't be any need for Han Byeol to use either the sword or derringer he's brought with him.

Han Byeol heaves the body onto the grass. Outside and away from the waters of the Sea of Samsara, it will decompose quickly; he has to work fast. It's been a while since he's had to do this, but the steps are as familiar as any dance -- scalpel in hand, taking off the face from hairline to jaw. Stakes through the wrists and meridian points -- and instead of blood, the corpse bleeds gobbets of demon miasma instead. It squirms and crawls against his gloves, as though displeased by its feast being disrupted. Han Byeol frowns and grabs at a handful of the slurry; it slides, thick and viscous through his fingers, one moment thick as molasses, the next as fluid as water.

His hand shakes when he's peeling Mayfair's face off; he's sure the witch queen Cybele Leandros will have a field day with dissecting his modus operandi, and what it means. 

He handles Mayfair with a bit more care than he customarily would afford any other thaumaturgist to have crossed his path -- after all, Mayfair, or at least his face, has been through a lot with him -- most recently, confronting the witch queen and her generals, and facing one of the Greater Dead. Slowly, carefully, he sets a blank, featureless mask over the fleshy, ruined mess that remains of Mayfair's face. In a sudden fit of inspiration, he retreats to a nearby thicket and tears a handful of wildflowers off their stems, scattering the crushed petals over Mayfair's body. No doubt, his sister would approve. It's only polite.

Once satisfied with his handiwork, he empties his pocket of all of Mayfair's accoutrements. The phone goes last; still wearing his ichor-stained surgical gloves, he taps in a message and presses 'send', leaving the phone still running. It'd be a simple matter for the Magisterium to triangulate Mayfair's last known location. 

He tucks the phone into the more intact of Mayfair's hands and stands. "Thanks for everything," he says to the body; the wind picks up, ever so slightly.

.

Han Byeol does not remember when was the last time he attended one of the witch masses. 

The great congregations has always seemed far too dangerous, far too crowded for him -- there are far too many people there, though he's certain none will know or recognise him now. Still, he takes caution when he attends that year's congregation, and hides his face with the same fox mask that a multitude of other people wear, all from his clan. 

This year, the mass is held in the ruins of what was once a great fortress on a cliff, the stone worn and pitted, weathered by wind and sun and rain. On one side, the buttresses have crumbled away to nothing, broken stone littering the remains of what used to be a grand courtyard. The ruined marble carcass of the fortress is stark and white against the dark, overgrown greenery that sprouts thick and lush around the area; at the edge of the cliff, the earth seems to have sheared away in large, jagged chunks, leaving only nothingness that stretches down and out into the sea.

Han Byeol supposes it could be beautiful, if he didn't know better. After all, remote castles on even more remote cliffsides tend to make for great tourist attractions.

He arrives early -- early enough that there is a bare minimum of ominous, mask-wearing people scattered around the cliffside. He keeps away from them, and makes his way to the shoreline, where the cliff falls away to a dizzying drop. The sun had set hours ago; this far away from the light pollution of the cities, he can see the stars, stretching through the sky -- a long, jagged trail that almost imitates the shape of the Spine. Far below his feet, the waves that crash and lap against the base of the cliff was black, the crests silvered by moonlight. 

Stretching out ahead, as far as his eye can see, are the shapes of rocky formations breaking through the iron-grey waves -- great fingers of pale stone, rising from the ocean like rough-hewn teeth and broken ribs. The air smells of the sea -- and this, not the heavy, heady saltwater stink of the Naraka. It's been a long time since he last went to the beach. In the distance, Han Byeol can see more of the pale, stony formations, eroded and weathered; the further ones crumble into nothing, the white of sun-bleached stone blending seamlessly into the white-capped waves. The uneven peaks of the stone fingers strain towards the sky, like supplicants to a distant god; their tops are flecked with sea-spray, quartzite deposits glittering in the dying sun.

Overhead, the sky is overcast, blue bleeding into purple. Stormclouds gather above the ruins of the fortress, a deep indigo blot, dark as a bloodied bruise. The air smells of rain, a mixture of ozone and raw, fresh earth. 

When the crowds gradually start to trickle in, Han Byeol absconds to the shadow of the ruined fortress, and tucks himself into a window ledge barely wide -- or structurally stable, really -- enough to support and accommodate him. Empty space and solitude has been his haven for so long; tonight, something about it brings discontent, tingling at the back of his neck. Perhaps it's just his surroundings; the stone in the shadow of the eaves is cool, the surface worn and pitted, as though eaten away by a multitude of tiny worms. He waits. 

The witch queens and kings arrive just when the moon is rising, accompanied by their own entourages of generals. This time, Han Byeol takes a keen interest in the figures standing around the dais in the middle of the ruined hall; he thinks he can make out the figure of Cybele Leandros, standing with her back to one of the windows. She's leaning over slightly, listening as a diminutive figure wearing a wolf mask murmurs something into her ear; a little behind her and to the left, a familiar man wearing the same tiger mask as Cybele glances around the hall. Even from this far away, Han Byeol recognises the man's mask and stature -- the same as the one who'd accompanied Jae Young to their rendezvous, all those months ago.

Cybele Leandros straightens and nods to the wolf-masked figure, before stepping forwards and taking her place at the dais. More than ever, Han Byeol is struck by the unusually pale colouration of her hair -- the surest sign of being in contact with the Root; it tumbles loose over her shoulders, blending almost seamlessly with the furs she's wearing. As he's watching her, she turns her head -- and seems to meet his eyes directly; the carved stone face of her tiger mask regards him impassively, its jaws parted almost like a question. Almost imperceptibly, she tips her chin up by a fraction; for a moment, he thinks he can see the hint of a smile, a momentary glimpse between alabaster fangs. Her lipstick is a vivid, blood-red slash on her skin. He looks away.

The Voice of the Assemblage calls for order, for the customary greetings, for the ceremonial laying down of arms. One by one, Swords of Damocles shimmer and waver in the air above the dais, their shapes just as varied as their wielders. 

Broadsword; zweihander; rapier; scimitar; falchion; katzbalger -- Han Byeol tries to squint; Cybele's Sword is an ugly, bulky thing; twisted and gnarled, almost more organic than anything else. Next to her, another woman stands straight-backed, looking straight ahead; unlike the others, all surveying the Swords, and unlike Cybele, who glances off to the side. The woman's Sword is straight and slender -- unlike Cybele's -- until it reaches the hilt -- there, it splits and branches, the grip and pommel chipped. 

The hum of power throbs in his teeth and in his chest, thrumming in his shoulders and down his arms. The Voice is seemingly satisfied by the show of Swords; the congregation wears on.

This far away, Han Byeol can't hear much of what they say; strains of their conversation filter through the air. Talk of contractors and thaumaturgists, of movements in their regions, and mysterious deaths -- all courtesy of the same contractor, if sources are to be believed. 

Daniel Mayfair. The name is carried across to him by the wind, a soft murmur. He sits up sharply, nearly bashing his head against the stone window ledge. Daniel Mayfair's death has been reported and confirmed; the tall woman with the ragged, weathered rapier makes soft but pointed inquiries about the culprit; about the increase of thaumaturgists and investigators in her region. Throughout the exchange, Cybele Leandros does not say a word.

Finally appraising her closely for the first time, Han Byeol remembers something some other mercenaries had said to him a long time back -- something about why nobody went to the western mountains.

_People who go there don't return,_ one of them had said. _There's no point going after them, once they cross the shadow of the western mountains._

_What's there?_

_Who knows. I heard there's a Hell's Gate there._

_And if not a Hell's Gate, there's a stone forest there, where the magic flows thick and strong. Just flying over it, it's enough to feel it humming in your teeth and bones, threatening to pull you down._

_I heard there are people who actually live there, another said. Pale hair and pale eyes. I heard they're heretics, corrupted by the wild magic there._

_Beware of them. Beware the white tigers of the west._

_I heard they got issued a sealing edict. There's nobody living there now. The mountain burned for a hundred and eight days and nights._

A laugh. _You really believe that?_

_I don't know. But I don't really want to see for myself. You're welcome to try._

He realises with a start that Cybele is talking -- making reports about happenings in her region, about all being well. She makes no mention of Han Byeol's unprovoked attack, of having found the renegade hunting thaumaturgists down. For a moment, he thinks she looks directly at him, catching his eye. "Nothing of interest?" one of the witch kings asks. Cybele nods, and concludes her report.

Pale hair and golden eyes. Wild magic and sealing edicts. Han Byeol stares at the figures surrounding the dais, and feels a chill go down his spine.

Perhaps it's a draught from where he's sitting. Han Byeol jumps from the window ledge, and starts to retrace his steps back up the knoll.

The grass rustles, soft and whispery against his legs. When he glances back, Han Byeol realises he can no longer see the attendants of the Mass behind the shadows of the fortress. Just as well, then; he's seen and heard enough.

.

At the end of the congregation, Han Byeol hears the sound of footsteps. When he turns around, Cybele Leandros is alone; her mask sits perched atop her head at a ridiculously jaunty angle, her hair pale against the alabaster. This time, she's alone -- there is no doppelganger demon shadowing her, no entourage of overprotective generals following in her wake. Han Byeol wonders what she'd have said to have shaken them off her trail.

"So this is your fabled true face." Her greeting is short, but not brusque. 

Han Byeol draws in a breath to steady himself, uncertain of how to answer. "It's ... my face, yeah."

"You should wear it more often. It suits you." The witch queen makes her way towards him. This time, she's not wearing heels -- instead she's clad in boots, practical for the terrain she's walking through. She still manages to seem surprisingly tall, straight-backed and poised. "More than that, though, I must say ... this is a rare honour."

"Your grace?"

"An honour for you to attend one of our little meetings."

Han Byeol has no idea whether she's being sarcastic or not. Neither options make for particularly safe assumptions. He settles, instead, for staying inoffensive. "It was ... it was interesting."

She doesn't respond; it's as good a cue as any for him to continue. "I haven't attended a Mass for a long time."

"I guessed as much." Cybele walks over to stand next to him. Her coat, slung over her shoulders, flaps loosely in the wind. "Well, did you find the answers you were searching for?"

Han Byeol shakes his head. "I'm sorry to disappoint you."

She shrugs, a loose and careless motion. "That's fine. I didn't really expect you to. I daresay, it'll take years before you can answer that sort of question to your own satisfaction."

"I do have another answer for you, though."

"Oh?" Cybele pivots slowly on her heels. Her expression is closed and unreadable; for once, there isn't any trace of amusement in her pale eyes. Before either of them can say anything else, her wolf-masked general draws to a stop beside them, followed by the taller, tiger-masked one.

The shorter general speaks first. "The others are departing soon. We should make haste as well, it's a long way back."

"Almost." Cybele nods towards Han Byeol. "I need to take care of some ... business first."

The silence that hangs between them is terse and heavy; the man in the tiger mask, in particular, seems to be intent on staring a hole through Han Byeol's head -- though he doesn't make any move to speak. Even this close, he doesn't seem terribly remarkable -- not remarkable enough to have shrugged off an entire barrage of magic-disrupting stakes strategically placed through what Han Byeol had assumed to be the usual pressure points. His mask is the same as Cybele's -- a snarling tiger face, open-jawed, the edges of the mask rimmed with gold to signify his standing -- but there are slightly more signs of wear along the alabaster surface. This must be her brother, then; the same stern and unsmiling man they'd met at the elevator, wearing spelled lenses and garbed as a researcher.

_Beware the white tigers of the west. Those with pale hair and pale eyes, the mark of heresy. Corrupted by wild magic._ Han Byeol shivers despite himself.

"Business," the wolf witch echoes at last, not sounding terribly convinced. "I knew I shouldn't have gone home early that day when you said you had an important meeting to attend to. I turn my back for five minutes, and this is what you get up to?"

"Now, now, it's nothing to be worried about." Cybele turns to smile at Han Byeol; it's not quite all teeth, but it doesn't put him entirely at ease, either. "Isn't that right?"

"No, your grace." Self-conscious of both generals' eyes on him, Han Byeol rearranges his mask slightly, making sure it covers his face fully. "As I was saying ... I've decided. I'll take you up on your gracious offer."

Cybele clasps her hands together, in an almost childish pantomime of excitement. "How wonderful," she exclaims, sounding far more thrilled than anyone else should have any right to. "I'm glad you came to such a favourable conclusion."

The man in the tiger mask makes a noise akin to a disbelieving snort. If Han Byeol doesn't know better, he'd swear Cybele elbows the man in the ribs. Only the wolf general stares resolutely ahead, betraying no trace of expression or reaction.

"--but I do have a condition."

"Ah, yes," Cybele says, her tone still light and airy and carefree. "I did anticipate as much. Go on, then, I'm in rather good spirits now. You've made me oh-so-happy."

Han Byeol clears his throat. "I ... I would like to ask for my freedom, if I may be so bold. Or rather, I'd like to be able to retain it. If I could."

"There it is." Cybele's voice drops back to her normal register -- or at least, the one Han Byeol thinks is her normal tone. "Let me guess. You wish to operate more or less under your own will, not directly swearing fealty to me."

"Well, yes, and ... and I think I would be able to serve you better if I continue doing what I do best. Namely, gathering information. Hiding in plain view. The same proposition that I gave you before. It still stands."

"I see," the wolf general says, "you intend on remaining as a double agent."

The other general folds his arms. "Who's to say you won't turn on us in the same way, then?" His voice is lower than Han Byeol remembers from the elevator; there's an almost quiet menace there.

Han Byeol laughs despite himself. "I may have made enemies amongst my own kind, but even I know better than to make an enemy out of a witch queen."

"It does make you smarter than some," Cybele murmurs, fingertips resting lightly against her lower lip. "I shall permit it."

The words tumble out in a rush; Han Byeol feels compelled to explain himself somehow, even though she doesn't ask. "I just ... I don't think-- it wouldn't ... I don't exactly have the, uh, background or history or standing to be one of your generals or anything."

"How hopelessly full of yourself," the tiger general says at last. He sounds almost amused. "Moreover, we have no reason to trust you." 

Cybele pinches him in the side; Han Byeol feels like he's just witnessed something he shouldn't have. "Be nice! And speak for yourself, I trust him enough for all three of us." Here, she flashes another smile to Han Byeol; though she sounds sincere, he feels the apprehension tingling at the back of his throat. Her lipstick is dark and red as fresh blood in the fading light; even now, he can make out the preternatural sharpness of her cuspids.

"And ... I, I hope I'm not being too forward or presumptuous in saying this, but ... I'd like my, um, life as well. If ... if that's not too much to ask, your grace."

This elicits a laugh out of her. "Oh, that's all you wanted? You can breathe easy in that regard. I didn't want your life anyway, regardless of what your answer would have been. Very well then, if that concludes our business for tonight ... I'd better be on my way. It wouldn't do to get caught out and about with No Face now, would it?"

"No Face," the wolf witch murmurs, and shakes her head. "I knew I shouldn't have left you alone that night. And where were _you_? I thought you were meant to keep her out of trouble," she adds, turning to the other general. He makes an impatient noise at the back of his throat. "You know what she's like. I'd like to have seen you try to stop her."

"Hush, the two of you." Cybele places an arm on their shoulders and spins them around, patting both gently on the lower back. "If you have time to badmouth me in front of polite company, then you have time to get busy. Off you go, chop chop, go round up the others. Tell Effie I'll see her in a few weeks. I'll be with you soon."

Han Byeol watches both generals depart and turns back to Cybele; he tries to smile despite the hammering of his heart in his throat. "You wound me, your grace. My life isn't worth a lot, I know. But ... I have to admit, I guess ... hearing that from you ... kinda stings a little. Is it really worth that little?"

"Wrong." Cybele says, though she doesn't turn around to face him. "Your life is worth as much as you value it ... my dear."

With that, she leaves; her footsteps are soft and muffled against the grass. When Han Byeol turns around, he's left alone atop the moonlit knoll.

**Author's Note:**

> Thus concludes the second half of my Nano '17 clusterfuck.


End file.
